The Devil You Know
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."' What happens to Jane and Lisbon once Red John is finally gone? Some fluffy, some angst, 100% JISBON.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: Don't worry, I'm working on the end of Rumor Has It as we speak. Please review! Please!? Do I need to beg for validation? LOL

Prologue

"I'm the man of your dreams," he says with such confidence and bravado that she feels her heart melt even as she wants to smack him.

"Are you now, Paddy?" she asks, placing one hand on her hip.

He grins at her, that fallen angel grin that makes her knees weak. "Of course."

Angela sighs. He's absolutely everything she doesn't want in a man. He's the embodiment of the game, so embroiled in his own lies that he even believes his own BS sometimes. He's never going to reform. He's never going to be the family man she wants.

Of course she loves him, that's just the way fate works.

As he leans forward and kisses her she relents. At least she understands him. Sometimes outsiders confuse her. She understands his motives, what drives him. Better the devil you know…

As he kisses her, his hands slide up the back of her shirt, over the skin of her back, then higher.

"Hey now," she says, and shoves him hard.

He grins, unrepentant. "Just you wait, Angela Ruskin," he says huskily. "Someday you're going to marry me."


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: As always, reviews make my day and are my inspiration.

Chapter One

"Are you okay?"

His ears are ringing, like he's been hit in the head, which he hasn't. Everything sounds far away, like he's underwater.

"Jane! Are you okay?"

Someone shoves his shoulder, hard, and he looks up and sees Lisbon's worried expression. She's got that little line between her eyebrows.

"I think so," he says, amazed at the sound of his own voice. He sounds normal. He looks down at his hands which are sticky with blood, some his, some not his.

He can smell cordite. He wonders how many times the SWAT team shot Red John. He heard the first shots from behind him, but then, even after the man fell, there were so many…

He wonders if the knife he wrestled from his grip was the same one he used to kill Angela and Charlotte. He looks at the gash on his forearm.

Lisbon has his arm, guiding him slowly away from where they are bagging the remains of Red John's body. "Let's go get that stitched up," she says slowly.

The ride to the hospital is a blur of headlights and taillights, white and red, flashing in the darkness. The hospital smells like bleach and pee. He doesn't even feel it when the needle pierces his flesh, when it sews him up whole again. He can't remember if they numbed him or not.

Lisbon stands in the corner of the room, coat folded over her arms, watching.

They give him a prescription for Vicodin and send him on his way.

He follows Lisbon to her car.

She doesn't even ask. Just drives him back to her place. He's so tired, he realizes. He's never been this tired in his life.

XXX

Jane looks worse than she's ever seen him, and she's seen him plenty bad. Teresa watches as the doctors sew up the gash on his arm. His eyes are distant and flat, a look she's seen quite a bit—shock.

He wrestled the knife away from Red John, the two of them locked in a deadly embrace so that when SWAT arrived, they couldn't take a shot without the risk of killing Jane. She was in the room, watching with heart in her mouth, when they broke apart for a split second, just long enough for someone to take the kill shot. So many people fired, including her, that she has no idea who actually killed Red John. It doesn't matter.

In the end he was just a man, not a monster. He was made a sinew and bone and blood, and he broke apart under the hail of bullets like anyone else would.

The question is will Jane break apart now too?

It's always disappointing when the monsters are just men in the end.

She drives him back to her apartment because he's obviously not in a state to be left alone. She's not sure he knows where he is. He follows her inside, then stands awkwardly in her living room like he's never seen it before.

She goes to the kitchen and pours him a glass of cold water. "Drink this," she says, handing it to him.

He takes it, but doesn't move.

"All of it," she orders.

He swallows the water, then hands her back the glass. She puts it in the sink, then after a moment's hesitation leads him up to her bedroom.

He doesn't say anything when she takes off his vest, then his shirt which is covered with blood. The blood on his sleeve is dried and hard, and the sleeve holds its shape, even after she pulls it from his arm.

He's still standing there, so she nudges him and says "C'mon." She gives him a pointed look.

He takes off his belt and toes off his shoes. He leaves his pants on, which is fine with her. She lifts up the sheets and ushers him under the covers. Tucking him in, she brushes the gold curls from his forehead, the way she used to when her brothers were little and sick.

"I'll be right in the living room," she tells him. She thinks he's already asleep.

She puts her pajamas on in the bathroom, and then makes her way to the sofa. It's late, but she's so hyped on adrenaline that she couldn't sleep if her life depended on it. She makes herself some of that herbal tea she keeps for Jane.

She curls up on the sofa and turns on the TV as she sips it, the tea scalding her tongue. Every news channel, local and national, is playing the Red John story. She mutes it and flips to a station running a late night informercial.

She tries to doze, but her mind goes back to Jane, lying in her bed. She wonders if he's free now, or if Red John will take him for a final victim. For as long as she's known Jane he's balanced his obsession with his need to enjoy life. Even in the midst of terrible pain he took pleasure in small things, in the thrill of the con, in the beauty of nature, in the taste of fresh fruit. She closes her eyes and says a quick prayer that he can hold onto that zest for life long enough to pull him through this. She asks God to give him the strength he needs.

Eventually she gives up and goes to her bedroom. She can hear his steady, even breathing. He's absolutely sound asleep, still curled on his side.

She lies down on top of the blankets beside him and closes her eyes. She sleeps a little, listening for him like a watchful mother, just in case he needs her.

Sometime during the night he rolls onto his back, and she climbs out of slumber to a hazy-half awake state. She feels him take her hand in his, then he sighs and drifts off again. She holds his hand, each of them lying on their backs next to each other, as innocent as little children.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: Please review! Please!? Do I need to beg for validation? LOL

II.

Jane wakes up alone, and it takes a moment for him to realize why he's noticed that. He's slept alone for ten years. He reaches instinctively to the space on the bed beside him and feels only rumpled sheets. He remembers holding Lisbon's hand in the darkness, drawing comfort from her nearness.

He feels strangely light, hyper-aware of his surroundings. He's always noticed things before, but now he feels them with such a clarity that he thinks he's spent the last decade watching his life as though it was a movie; now he is living it.

There is a pleasant heaviness to his limbs that comes from sleeping deeply for eight hours. The gash on his forearm is hot and itchy, sore. The bed smells of Lisbon's shampoo, and a little like sweat. The sheets are crumpled beneath him.

He climbs from the bed, stretches in the half darkness. She left the blinds closed for him. He knows the apartment is empty. He would feel her presence here, hear her movements nearby. He goes to her bathroom, empties his bladder, splashes water on his face, and searches for a painkiller. He finds some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet next to a sea foam green package of birth control pills. He thinks he should feel guilty for sorting through her things, but he doesn't. He finds a spare toothbrush, brushes his teeth, and runs his fingers through his hair.

He pauses then, wondering what exactly he's getting ready for. His purpose was gunned down along with Red John. He is free, for the first time in a decade. He no longer has to go to work. He doesn't have to do anything.

Panic bubbles in his chest. Red John was his reason for staying alive after Angela and Charlotte were killed. Without his revenge to anchor his down, he probably would have taken his own life. Now he expects to feel that old despair welling up in his mind, like blood in a bone-deep wound. He holds his breath, but he feels nothing but a strange sense of calm. Perhaps it's because this apartment is still infused with little reminders of Lisbon. He can see the empty coffee mug she left on the kitchen table on her way to work. He can smell her perfume in the air.

He realizes with a twinge of guilt that he's replaced his family with another. He thinks of Grace, Wayne and Kimball and feels a warm sensation that's eerily similar to love.

He makes himself a cup of tea and sips it while rifling through the books on her bookshelf. He showers, puts his rumpled suit back on, and calls for a taxi.

The cab drops him at his car. He sits behind the wheel for just a moment before deciding what to do.

XXX

Teresa resists the urge to pick up her phone and call Jane. She's not even sure he has his cell or that he would answer her house phone. She wonders if he's still asleep. He was out like a light when she left for work.

She was secretly relieved at not having to face him the morning. Sometime during the night they had rolled into each other, Jane's legs tangled with hers, his arm around her waist. When she had opened her eyes his lips had been millimeters from hers, his head resting on her pillow.

It wasn't the physical proximity that frightened her; it was the temptation she felt to press a chaste to kiss to his lips. The urge she has to comfort Jane goes beyond any boundaries that she should respect in regard to a coworker.

Then again yesterday had been an emotional experience for everyone.

When she had walked in Van Pelt had immediately asked, "Is Jane okay?"

She saw concern on Cho and Rigsby's faces as well.

"He's fine," she had replied. "He's staying at my place for now."

Her fingers twitch. She reaches for the phone, touches it, takes her hand away.

He needs space.

She wonders if he'll run away again. She wonders if he'll end his life, now that he has nothing to live for.

She touches her cross, closes her eyes. _Please God, let us be enough for him. Give him strength. Give him hope, God._

XXX

Jane shivers against the chill of the morgue.

"It's bad," says the tech, folding up the fifty Jane slipped him. "You really sure you want to see."

"Yes."

He needs to know. He needs confirmation that the devil is dead.

He follows the tech to the freezer, watches the metal tray slide out. The tech unzips the body bag a quarter of the way down.

The man inside doesn't look like the devil; he looks like a dead man. Most of his head is missing, and in some way it preserves Red John's mystique. Everyone looks vulnerable in death, even serial killers. Without a face Red John has escaped even that last indignity and replaced it with horror.

The smell is repulsive.

This is just so much meat, shattered bone, shredded skin, purple and red and white. It's a cold shell that once housed evil.

He feels no satisfaction, no relief. He feels vaguely disappointed that it isn't more dramatic somehow.

He nods at the tech who zips the bag back up.

He strolls down the ugly green tiled hallway, hands in his pockets. He has another stop to make.

XXX

Teresa leaves the office early for the first time in two years. She has resisted the urge to call Jane, but now panic is getting the best of her. She needs to see him, to touch him, to reassure herself that he hasn't walked into the ocean or jumped from a ten-story building.

His car is outside her apartment when she pulls up and she lets out a huge breath. Her keys rattle in the lock as she struggles to open her door.

When she steps inside she is hit with a pleasant and homey aroma. She freezes, as shocked as if she smelled the decay of a murder victim.

Jane is in her kitchen, humming, closing the door to her oven.

"You're early," he says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world for him to be cooking in her kitchen.

"I was worried," she admits.

"About me?" he asks, then pulls a bottle of wine from her fridge and uncorks it. "You shouldn't my dear Lisbon. I'm not worth the stress."

"Stop it," she hisses. She's precariously close to tears, all the concern from the day having ebbed away and leaving her shaking.

He cocks his head at her, his grin fades. "Hey," he says. "I was just kidding." He pours a glass of red wine and hands it to her. She takes a trembling sip.

"The pot roast won't be done for another hour," he says.

"You went shopping," she says lamely.

He rolls his eyes. "What keen detective skills, Agent Lisbon. You had half curdled milk and some baking soda in the fridge."

She feels the alcohol in her belly, spreading warmth and relaxation in its wake. She tried to eat lunch and breakfast, but nausea plagued her all day.

"I'll uh…change," she says, setting her glass on the counter.

Before she can move away Jane grabs her and pulls her into a hug. It's not like the two she's already gotten from him. This is lingering and warm, his face pressed to her head. She realizes he's smelling her hair.

Her arms flail lamely before she returns the embrace, sighing as her body sinks into his. He's larger than she's realized before, masculine and warm. She is enclosed in his arms, feels the thud of his heart against her cheek.

He kisses her head before releasing her. "Get changed," he says, as if nothing just happened between them. "I'll set the table."

She feels light headed as she walks to her bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

III.

Jane could feel Lisbon's hesitation as he held her. He could also feel her finally relent, melt against him. He feels a little selfish, demanding this embrace from her. When he closes his arms around her, feeling her reassuring weight against his chest, he finally feels anchored to the earth.

He has seen Red John's ruined face and bloodless body. He knows, intellectually, that the monster who has stalked him for a decade is dead. His emotional understanding is much more tenuous. He threw himself into domestic tasks during the afternoon to keep distracted. He bought groceries. He prepared dinner. All day he held his breath, expecting to wake up from some dream and find that he is not truly free.

Hearing Lisbon's keys jangle in the door was one more sign that this was real. If it was a dream he would haunt her house eternally, waiting for her to return, but finding himself always alone. His dreams are cruel that way.

She's always been his touchstone, his link to the real world. Whenever he threatened to slip away into depression and self-destruction, she kept him tethered in place. He wraps his arms around her because he wants a final confirmation that she is real, that this is real, and that he is safe. He smells her shampoo in her hair, and the vaguely floral scent slows his heart, calms him. She is so little in his arms. He's denied himself physical contact for so long that he has forgotten how reassuring it is.

He knows he holds her for longer than is appropriate, but he needs to ask this one last thing of his friend. He needs to be touched, to feel something solid so he knows he'll be all right. When she senses that, when she hugs him back, he knows they're okay.

He lets her go. "Go get changed," he says. "I'll set the table."

She disappears to her bedroom, and he sorts through her cabinets, removing plates and glasses. He pours himself a glass of wine, and sets everything on her table. He had to clear away a stack of mail earlier; he wonders how often she actually eats in her dining room rather than on the couch.

He lets the roast rest and scoops potatoes and carrots into a bowl. He thickens the drippings with cornstarch and cold water and, when he realizes she doesn't own a gravy boat, pours it into a Pyrex measuring glass.

Lisbon wanders into the dining room wearing flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized Anaheim Ducks sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun. She looks small and sweet, and he notices that her toenails are pink. That surprises him a little. He loves surprises.

"I can't believe you made dinner," she marvels.

He scoffs. "You don't think I can cook?"

She sits down and begins serving them. "I think you can do anything you put your mind to, which is really annoying," she says. "I'm just surprised you did cook, I guess."

She scoops vegetables onto his plate. "Are we celebrating?" she asks hesitantly.

He knows she means Red John's death. "Let's celebrate being alive," he replies. He lifts his glass to hers in a toast.

They eat more or less in silence. Lisbon occasionally fills him in on how the team is doing, as if he hadn't seen them twenty four hours ago. It may as well be a lifetime.

The roast is perfect, tender and juicy. He's surprised at her voracious appetite; he lifts an eyebrow when she helps herself to seconds.

"Don't start," she warns. "I haven't had a home cooked meal in forever."

The comfort food, the wine, and her company all serve to make him feel sleepy and content, like a lazy cat. He wants to stay in her dining room forever, to keep this moment safe inside a little bubble.

He sighs with resignation when she gets up to do the dishes. That's Lisbon; no appreciation for taking her time.

She rinses the dishes and hands them to him so he can load the dishwasher. Her fingers brush his, soapy and hot from the water in the sink. He's a little startled at how intimate the contact feels, almost sexual. He thinks it's the wine and eight solid hours of sleep and relief.

"Do you want to watch TV?" he asks. He knows that the polite thing would be to say goodnight and leave, but he doesn't care. He wants to stay, to cocoon himself in the safety and warmth of her home.

"Sure," she says, shoving her hands in the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt.

She sits in her chair, feet tucked under her, and he stretches out on the couch. He knows she doesn't like the chair. The cushion looks too new, and it's not facing the TV at an angle that would suggest she sits there often. He wonders if she's too uncomfortable to share the couch with him. She's sat next to him plenty of times at work, but he supposes that the intimacy of being in her own home might feel odd to her.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as they watch the nightly news. When the Red John story comes on she glances furtively at him, checking his reaction. After the news is done there is some horrible entertainment- news program where they interview celebrities about mundane things. He can feel his brain start to atrophy. She flicks the channel to a documentary about the planets, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

He's listening to the narrator talk about Mars, the red planet, when he notices the sound of her breathing has changed. Her head is lolling to the side and her mouth is open, just a little.

He grins. She's adorable when she sleeps.

He gets up, tucks a chenille throw around her, and steals the remote. He changes the channel to CNN and more coverage of the Red John case. The media is reliving every gory detail of the killer's life and death. He hears his name a few times. He finds that the story doesn't bother him so much; it cements into place the reality of what happened. He finds it comforting.

Eventually Lisbon's gentle breathing moves into light snoring, and he stands up, stretches, then gently shakes her shoulder.

"Mmm?" she blinks at him owlishly.

"It's late," he says. "You should probably go to bed."

She gets up, moving as if drugged. She heads for the stairs, then stops and grabs his wrist. "You can stay here tonight," she mumbles.

He knows she's protecting him. "Okay," he says.

He watches her shuffle up the stairs, hears her brush her teeth. The light upstairs goes out. He lies back down on the couch and puts the TV on mute. He falls asleep too.

XXX

Teresa wakes up to her alarm clock radio wailing a horrible country song. She hates country music, which is why she set her alarm to it. She also left the clock on the other side of the room, ensuring that she can't just shut it off. As a result she's never late for work.

She gets up grumpily and shuts the machine off, cutting off a cowboy mid-croon. The noise of her shower surprises her, then she remembers that she told Jane to stay.

She runs her fingers through her hair and heads for the kitchen, where the warm smell of coffee is already waking her up. She realizes that Jane will have to use her shampoo and she grins a little at the thought of him smelling like gardenia.

Her coffeemaker has a delay timer, and a fresh pot is waiting for her. She fills her cup and looks in the fridge. She brightens when she sees that Jane bought hazelnut creamer.

At that thought, he appears in her kitchen, freshly showered and wearing a clean suit. Did he bring over fresh clothes yesterday? She stirs her coffee and wonders at him.

"Do you want eggs?" he asks, opening the fridge and pouring himself some orange juice.

"Sure," she mutters, skirting around him as she makes her way for the bathroom. "Can you make me an egg sandwich or something? I won't have time to eat here."

She showers and dresses quickly. It takes her a few minutes to blow dry her hair and slap on some mascara.

When she is done Jane is in the kitchen, wrapping an egg and bagel sandwich in tinfoil. He's poured her another cup of coffee into her travel mug.

"Thanks for breakfast," she says, feeling uncharacteristically cheery. "I'll clean up the dishes tonight."

He sets her frying pan in the sink. "All right. I'll meet you at headquarters." He grabs his own sandwich, brushes by her standing by the fridge, and leans down and presses a quick kiss to her lips.

Everything stops. A thrill runs from her lips to the tips of her fingers. She sucks in a breath.

He pulls back and she sees the shock on his face.

It was the most chaste and perfunctory of kisses. It was the kind of kiss that a husband gives his wife on the way out the door. She has been kissed plenty of times before and much more deeply than that.

But it's a Jane kiss, and she's trembling.

He looks a little panicked. "I…uh…" He is so rarely flustered that she barely recognizes him.

"It's okay," she says in a breathy voice. "It's fine."

_Has he cracked?_ she wonders. _Does he think I'm Angela?_

She forces herself to relax, to turn back to her coffee, stirring the creamer into it. The spoon clanks loudly on the inside of the mug. "Old habits die hard," she says casually. "I'll see you at work."

His eyes are still too wide. "See you in a bit, Lisbon."

He leaves and she takes a deep breath, touches her lips. It was the strangest moment of her entire life with Jane, mostly because he hadn't planned it. She swears he looked almost afraid.

She swallows, seals her travel mug, and grabs her briefcase. She can forget about this and go about her day. She's the daughter of an alcoholic; she's good at pretending things didn't happen.

**A/N: Please review, it would make me so happy! Constructive criticism is always welcome, too!**


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

IV.

Jane hides in his attic like a coward and combs his brain for a reason why he kissed Lisbon. He is a man who is control of himself, from his heart-rate and blood pressure to his emotions. He is monastic in his self-denial; he functions without sleep, without sex, without touch.

He hasn't surprised himself in a very long time, not even when he killed Timothy Carter.

Feeling Lisbon's soft lips under his was very surprising, especially since he didn't realize he was kissing her, and he's always_ aware_ of everything. It's a happy little gift really, being surprised by a tender, chaste kiss. It was too brief of a kiss to notice how she tasted or felt, really, but that sweet little press of lips was enough to send a warm flush of contentment down to the pit of his stomach, like the first alluring swallow of brandy.

Of course it also raises a plethora of more distressing questions. His lizard-brain is asking what it would be like to weave his fingers into her dark hair, to press her back against her refrigerator, to fill her with his tongue. He wants to know what her little moans of pleasure of sound like, and if she tastes like coffee.

He's rational brain is asking if he's just destroyed his friendship with Lisbon, if it's going to be _weird_ now. She was blasé about the whole thing, but that's typical Saint Teresa, not wanting to upset anyone.

He leans against the cold glass of the window and tries to forget kissing her. He tries to wipe it from his memory palace, but it's so entrenched he knows he can't. That little kiss has its own shrine now.

XXX

If Jane isn't around, it means one of two things. He's either in the midst of weaving together some web of deception that will result in her responding to civilian complaints until midnight, or he's avoiding a talk he doesn't want to have.

Teresa knows that today it's the latter.

She isn't sure why he'd be embarrassed or feel guilty. He did much worse when he was mid-fugue, copping a feel and inviting her to sleep in his bed. She wonders if he's most upset by the fact that he clearly didn't plan this, that Patrick Jane is capable of purely human moments.

She finds herself in the kitchen, making tea, not for him, but for herself. She doesn't know when she developed a taste for the brew; before Jane it always reminded her of when her brothers would shove her into the leaf pile in the backyard during fall. It tasted dead and musty.

Now she dips a bag of Irish Breakfast tea into a mug of hot water and watches little russet-brown trails of tea weave their way through the hot water. She sips it, savoring the scalding flavor. Her throat feels tight and sore, like she's been trying not to cry, which is ridiculous, because clearly she's not.

Rigsby pokes his head into the kitchenette. "Boss, we caught a case," he says.

She looks for a paper cup to pour the tea into. "I'll be right there. Get Jane would you?"

She doesn't want to cause him anymore undue shame by intruding on his solitude.

XXX

Jane disappears in the victim's house, which means he's snooping. She sits talking to the husband, trying not to worry about what kind of havoc he's wreaking.

Finally when the husband begins to cry and asks for a moment alone, she excuses herself, and goes in search of him.

Jane is sitting with the victim's two young daughters in their play room, coloring in coloring books.

"Did you know the smell of crayons has been shown to lower blood pressure?" he asks. "It brings back feelings of childhood."

She does love the smell of Crayola. She wonders if he had coloring books and crayons as a child and doubts it.

One of the little girls, Olivia, leans over and looks at Jane's work. "Cinderella has blonde hair!" she announces indignantly.

Teresa glances down; Jane has been coloring in a Disney Princess book. Cinderella is a brunette with a pink dress. She smiles despite herself.

"So she does," Jane replies. "My apologies."

Teresa rubs at her neck, sore now, wondering what's happening to her. Has she been so enchanted by a chaste little kiss that she can't think of Jane seriously anymore? She sighs, the skin of her throat feeling too tight and hot.

"Let's go Prince Charming," she says.

XXX

Teresa wakes up feeling sticky and hot. She realizes her face is pressed to the blotter on her desk, the pages stuck to her cheek by sweat. She sits up, her muscles screaming in protest. The office is quiet and dark.

They had closed the case in record time, and she had stayed behind to finish up the paperwork. She must have dozed off. She glances at her clock and winces.

She swallows and tears spring to her eyes. It's like swallowing broken glass.

Her door hisses open and Jane pokes his head in. "You planning on going home—"

He stops mid-sentence and looks at her. "You're sick," he announces.

"I know," she croaks, reaching for her keys. "I'm going to just go home and try to sleep it off."

He walks over to her and places a cool hand on her forehead. "You're burning up," he says. "You need to drink some water. Do you have any ibuprofen?"

She stands up, feeling shaky. "Hurts too much to swallow," she says.

"You're going to the doctor," he announces.

She raises an eyebrow. "At ten at night?"

"There's an urgent care open," he offers. "I'll drive you."

She rolls her eyes. "Jane."

He guides her out of the office. "C'mon, Lisbon, humor me," he says. "Even Saint Teresa gets sick sometimes."

A/N: Sorry this was a short one; I decided to break this chapter into two smaller ones. Coming up, Jane taking care of a sick Teresa, and some joint shower time. You know you want to review…


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

V.

In the end he was right in bringing her to the clinic. She has strep throat and needs antibiotics. Her fever goes up while she's waiting for the doctor, shivering miserably in her little plastic chair, while Jane flips through an old Highlights magazine and pretends not to be worried.

He finds a twenty-four pharmacy and fills her prescription. He leaves in the car while he goes inside to stock up on a few things. Her brain feels fuzzy and frantic with fever and pain. Every time she swallows she winces. Her tongue is thick and filling up her mouth.

He helps her into her apartment, locking the door behind them. She realizes he intends to stay, and she's too tired to argue. She wants to sleep forever.

He finds her thermometer in her bathroom and takes her temperature again. He looks upset when he reads the numbers.

"You have a hundred and four fever," he says.

She shrugs. The movement hurts. "I'm going to bed."

"We need to get your temperature down," he says. He guides her to the bathroom and turns the shower on, keeping the water cool. She leans against the wall, too tired to stand.

"Can you take a cool shower?" he asks.

"Sure," she croaks, and starts to slump down the wall.

"Right," he says. Then Jane starts to take off his clothes. The skin of his chest is smooth and gold. He has a tiny line of blond hair beneath his belly button.

Teresa manages to open her eyes a little wider, which is impressive, since she has almost no control of her body anymore. "_Jane_?" Her voice is a rasp.

"You need to get in the shower," he says. "I'm afraid you're going to drown in the bathtub."

"_Jane_."

"Help me take your clothes off, woman," he says with exasperation.

_The closest a man should get to a fitted sweater is helping a woman out of one_, she remembers. She giggles.

"Yeah, your brain is frying," he remarks dryly. He helps her pull her slacks down her legs, pulls off her socks. His fingers burn where they touch her bare skin. His touch is methodical, impersonal. He keeps his eyes on her face, her shoulders, her knees. His consideration almost brings her to tears.

He unbuttons his pants, and despite her illness, she feels her breath catch. She's never seen Jane's bare legs before. They have hair on them. Of course they do, she thinks. He has nice knees. When they are both are in their underwear, he helps her into the shower.

She nearly screams. The water is freezing against her skin, like tiny ice pellets stinging her. "It's freezing!" she hisses, teeth chattering.

"It's the fever," he says. "The water isn't that cold." He stands behind her, his arms around her middle, propping her up. His skin is scalding against her back. Ice and fire. Her head is spinning.

He gets her hair wet, brushing it back from her face. She shivers and sniffles.

Strangely, this is the most intimate thing she's ever done with anyone. She's vulnerable, sick, miserable, being held steady by a man who seems to care more for her, than any lover she's ever had. Her head lolls against his shoulder.

"Thank you," she mutters. "No one else would do this for me."

"You're my best friend, Lisbon," he says evenly as if that's totally obvious.

We're crossing boundaries, she thinks.

She starts to feel cooler, more rational. He helps her out of the shower and dries them off. Their respective under garments are completely transparent. He helps her to her bedroom and leaves her alone with her pajamas.

"I'll be back," he says.

She changes, climbs between the sheets. Jane returns, dressed, with two pills and a glass of water.

"You're alternating Tylenol and ibuprofen every two hours until that fever comes down," he says.

She swallows the pills; they seem to scrape painfully down her throat.

His hand is warm on her forehead as she drifts off to sleep.

She drifts in and out of fevered dreams, snippets of nonsensical, vaguely frightening scenarios lingering in her brain after she wakes up. Every two hours Jane shakes her awake and makes her swallow some pills along with a glass of cold water or diluted juice. Her mind is so cluttered with illness that she questions whether or not he's really there.

At some point he puts a cool cloth on her forehead and sits with her while she shivers. The green numbers of her clock read 3 a.m.

"I'm not used to this," she says, her nerves jangled. "When I was younger, I'd take care of the boys when they were sick, but there wasn't anyone to take care of me." It's a statement of fact; there is no sadness in her voice.

She can't see his face in the dark. She feels the cool rim of the glass as he presses it to her lips. She sips.

"My father meant well," she says, a little water dribbling off her lower lip. "He'd buy me things when he sobered up, out of guilt, but he wasn't there when I was sick."

"My father never really took care of me either," Jane says. "He was too busy gambling or whoring to take care of a sick kid in the middle of the night."

Teresa suddenly pictures a grown Jane holding back Charlotte's hair while she's sick into a plastic bucket, rubbing her back gently and tucking her back into bed. It's so vivid she feels like she witnessed it.

"I wonder what you would have been if you had loving family," she mutters. "A CEO of a fortune 500 company, the president…" She yawns. "A prince…"

"I think you have to be born into that one," he says, his voice amused. "Get some sleep, Teresa, I'll be back in two hours."

XXX

She wakes up late in the morning, her fever having broken, and her body feeling sticky and abused. She showers away her night-sweats and changes into clean pajamas.

She finds Jane sound asleep on her couch, looking exhausted. She feels a twinge of guilt at having kept him up all night. She tucks him in, pours herself a glass of water, and swallows her antibiotics. She calls the office, tells Van Pelt she's sick, and crawls back into bed with a book.

She reads for only a few minutes before the words seem fuzzy and she drifts off again. The house feels quiet and safe with Jane here, like when she was a child and she knew her mom was nearby.

She curls her toes under the covers and dreams of princesses in pink dresses.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

VI.

Teresa wakes up with a fuzzy head and froggy throat. It takes her a moment to realize Jane is in the room with her, and it startles her until she remembers that she is sick, and that he stayed.

She sits up and he hands her a cup with a spoon poking out of it.

"Here," he says. "Eat this."

The cup is filled with purple slush. She takes a bite and closes her eyes in sweet, cool bliss. "What is this?" she croaks.

"Grape popsicle mixed with a little 7-UP."

Jane sits on the foot of her bed and watches her eat.

She wonders if he made a similar concoction for his daughter or wife when they were sick. There is a whole domestic, tender side to Jane that she has seen only in snippets. He was always gentle and fun-loving with children, a testament both to his own child-like nature and his natural disposition as a father. It makes it all the more cruel that he was robbed of that role.

It's odd now to see him open up this way to an adult. She supposes that as his closest friend, it's logical that she'll be to see him this way first. She wonders if it's a reflection of the level of trust they've gained over the years or an indication of his personality changing now that Red John is dead.

She swallows the last few purple spoonfuls of slush and hands Jane the cup.

"Do you want more?" he asks.

She nods and follows him to the kitchen. She watches as he breaks up a cherry popsicle, crushes it with a spoon, and adds soda.

"You don't have to take care of me like this," she says hoarsely.

He mixes the slush up, hands it to her. "Meh. I don't mind."

She eagerly swallows an icy spoonful. "Why?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "Why?"

She wipes a cherry flavored dribble from her lip. "Why are you taking care of me?"

Jane presses a hand to the rumpled vest over his heart. "What are you implying Lisbon? You wound me."

She swallows another spoonful, feeling her cheeks flush. She chooses to blame it on the fever. "You aren't exactly domestic, Jane."

What she wants to say is, you come and go as you please, indifferent to the day to day routine of other people's lives. What she wants to say is, sometimes you're pretty damn selfish.

"You'd be surprised how domestic I used to be," he replies, and his voice has a little edge to it.

She immediately regrets questioning his motives. He is Jane, her best friend, and if he wants to care for her while she's sick, it's rude to question his intentions. She can't tell if she hurt him or not.

She feels her head spin. The sudden death of Red John, Jane's initial catatonic state, and now her illness is overwhelming. She feels their relationship shift more in the span of a week than it has in years.

An uncomfortable silence hangs between them like a fog. Finally Jane says "There's a Top Chef marathon on."

She follows him to the living room. They sit on opposite ends of the sofa, watching TV. She pulls her robe more tightly around her body, fighting off a chill that has nothing to do with strep. Finally she begins to doze.

When she wakes up she finds that Jane has tucked her in on her couch. He is nowhere to be found.

XXX

Jane walks down the rain slicked street, hands shoved into his pants pockets. The air is chilly and damp, and his bones ache. He realizes he's getting old, feeling pain in joints that he never noticed before.

He feels a tiny nugget of pain under his ribs, lodged in his breastbone like a piece of shrapnel. He was surprised at Lisbon's question, although he shouldn't be. He's abandoned her for months, lied to her, played her, all to his own selfish ends. Strangely those details were always incidental to their friendship. The strength of their bond ran deeper than deception and petty trickery.

Still Lisbon has always cared for him, mother hen that she is. Jane isn't the type of man to make a woman dinner or tend to her illness unless he had an underlying motive.

The little kernel of pain worries at his nerves as he realizes he does have an underlying motive. He wants to stay with Lisbon, to feel secure and accepted. Red John was like a weight on his chest, holding him underwater. Now that he has surfaced, he longs to be warm again.

He likes spending time with Lisbon. He likes invading her soft, homey spaces. He likes sleeping in a home instead of on a cot mattress on top of door or a cheap hotel bed.

The kiss still bothers him though. It was a total instinctual move, unplanned. It had just fallen into place, a part of the little morning routine they built. It was decidedly non-sexual, affectionate, but he had felt her stiffen under his touch. He knew he'd pushed the line there.

He strolls up to a cheap motel, slides the manager some cash. The man doesn't even look up from his Playboy magazine.

Jane finds himself stretched out on another lumpy mattress in a non-descript room. For the first time in ages his ascetic surrounds bother him. He's starting to notice the material things again.

And he wants another kiss.

A/N: Sorry this is a short chapter. I'm traveling for work. I should have something more substantial for the weekend.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: Reviews are the best!

VII.

When Monday comes, Teresa finds herself unwilling to go to work. Physically she is much better: weak, but now able to eat. Emotionally she feels as though she's run a marathon, and is trembling from the exertion.

For the first time in years, she calls in sick to work again. Truthfully, another day to heal isn't a bad idea, but she knows that's not her motivation. She's hiding from Jane, and from the guilt she feels at offending him.

All day Sunday she watched her phone for a call or a text, letting her know that he was alright. She'd wanted to call him herself, to apologize for interrogating him when all he was doing was caring for a sick friend. Years of failed relationships have made her suspicious whenever anyone tries to get close. With Jane it had always been different; he was as damaged as she was, incapable of emotional intimacy. Now that Red John is dead, now that he kissed her, he is no longer safe, and she is unconsciously sabotaging their friendship.

She knows she needs to make amends, to apologize, but the urge to hide is overwhelming. No one, including her father, has ever cared for her like this before. She imagines her mother did when she was a child, but she has no memory of that.

If she lets Jane be the person to break down her walls, then she'll just be more deeply wounded when he inevitably disappears.

She sees it in her mind's eye, Jane with some willowy brunette on his arm, slyly smiling, explaining to the team why his work there is done. He'll call her once in a while, but their friendship will slowly be dissolved by the distance. The idea chokes her.

She spends Monday cleaning her apartment, doing laundry, all the mundane tasks that keep her mind off of Jane. She makes it through the day with only one nap.

He doesn't call and she knows for certain he is angry now, hurt. She goes to bed knowing she needs to make things right between them.

Tuesday morning she marches into the office, fortified by dark roast coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. Both of Jane's couches are empty.

"Glad you're feeling better boss," Rigsby says to her with a smile.

She answers the teams' polite questions before retreating to the safety of her office. She could check the attic, but she suspects Jane isn't there. She opens her files, fires up her computer, and gets to work.

They don't have any active cases which gives her the breathing room to finish paperwork and sort through the mountain of emails that have accumulated in her absence.

By mid-morning she is thirsty, and the thought of more coffee is unappealing for some reason. She makes her way to the break room, opens the second cabinet from the fridge, and begins to search for the little white box with the dragon on it.

"Thief."

The word is spoken lazily, with a smirk, and she feels a shiver run through her body.

Jane is leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. "I knew I'd convert you eventually. Are you looking for the gunpowder green or the Assam?"

She falters. "The um, dragon…tea…"

He rolls his eyes. "Gunpowder green."

He strolls over to her, leans up against her body, and fishes the box out of the cabinet. He begins preparing them a pot. She knows he touched her intentionally, putting her out of her comfort zone. He could have told her where the friggin tea was.

"I owe you an apology, Jane," she says before she can back out. "What you did for me… No one has ever taken care of me like that before, and I treated you horribly."

Jane pours the hot water into the teapot. They never used to keep a kettle of just hot water around before Jane; in a police station it would have been sacrilegious not to fill the vessel with coffee.

He adds the tea leaves, and she watches them unfurl in the steaming water, opening up like little flowers. Jane puts the lid on the pot, letting it steep.

"You're afraid to let anyone close to you because they might hurt you like your father did," Jane observes, no emotion in his voice. "Even as child you treated your own illness, first because no one else was available, then because you were afraid to appear weak. The scar on your lower back? You fell when you were young, no one was there to properly clean it, so you did a half-assed job yourself and it scarred over."

She gasps and touches her lower back. "How did you know that was there?"

"The shower," he reminds her.

She blushes.

"I'm your friend, Lisbon. It's okay to trust me." His voice is soft and alluring, and she wants to believe everything he says. He uses that voice in interrogations sometimes. "You don't always have to be the caregiver. Sometimes, it's a two-way street."

She can't meet his eyes, can't acknowledge that she's not used to those relationships. He turns his back and pours the tea.

He hands her a mug, and it's scalding against the skin of her hand.

"Can I make you dinner tonight?" she asks. "By way of apology."

He gives her a horrified look. "Isn't that just further punishment?"

She smacks his arm gently. "I _can_ cook, Jane. I just don't usually do it. Be there at eight?"

"Eight," he agrees. "Hey, Lisbon, speaking of the shower, when did you stop wearing sports bras to work? The demi cup looks great on you by the way," he gives her the 'okay' sign with his thumb and forefinger. "You might want to invest in some darker colors though."

She flushes. "Jane! Hush!"

She smacks him again on the way to her office.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

VIII.

Teresa leaves early enough to pick up a few things from the market: frozen vegetables, chicken, rice, and stir fry sauce. When she gets home and digs her wok out of the cabinet it has enough dust on it that she has to wash it before setting it on the stove top to warm.

She changes into jeans and a loose sweater, then sets about preparing dinner. At exactly eight o'clock she hears the door open, and Jane saunters in, carrying two bottles of wine.

"I didn't know what we were having," he explains, "so I got red and white."

The timer on the electric rice cooker beeps and she moves to switch it off. "Honestly Jane, are you trying to get me drunk?" She smirks and opens the rice cooker.

"Would I really need to get you drunk?" he asks.

The lid slips from her fingers and slams closed with a thunk. His words, and the confident, velvet tone in which he spoke them, settle low and hot in her belly. She sucks in air. She's never had these reactions to Jane before, not before that damned kiss, and it scares her. Jane is safe, very, very safe. She doesn't need to feel swollen and needy now every time he teases her or flirts with her.

He ignores her reaction, although of course it's not lost on him, not on Jane, and sets her table. The clink of plates and flatware is reassuring.

She hears him fiddling around in her living room as she scoops the stir fry into a serving dish. The door to her entertainment center opens, then the wail of sensual jazz saxophone fills the apartment. Frank Catalano is playing Killer Joe.

She closes her eyes and smells the smoky interior of the Green Mill Lounge, feels the thrill of sneaking in as a teenager.

Jane reappears in the kitchen door. "So is Jazz your secret passion?"

She shrugs and brushes past him to the dining room table. "It's not a secret."

"You don't talk about it at work," he comments.

"Who am I going to talk to about jazz?" she asks with a laugh. "Rigsby? Van Pelt?"

"Me," he offers, sitting down across from her.

She serves them stir fry, spoons up rice. Jane has already poured the wine; red to go with the spicy chicken.

"I didn't think there was much to talk about," she comments, feeling defensive for some reason.

"Okay." He takes a bite of chicken.

"Don't say it like that," she replies snappishly.

He swallows. "Like what?"

"Like it's not really okay, but you're saying okay," she replies. "Like we're having a fight."

He grins boyishly. "I just asked you about jazz, Teresa."

The sound of him saying her first name rubs against her spine like silk. She takes a drink of her wine and feels it settle warmly in her belly. "Okay."

He rolls his eyes at her.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, then she says, "When I was sixteen, I'd take the L train downtown to the Green Mill. It wasn't in the best neighborhood. I had a fake ID. I'd get in and listen to jazz till one in the morning. Then I'd take all the money I'd saved up from my part time job and my allowance and pay for a cab home."

"Saint Teresa had a fake ID?" he asks, scandalized.

She shrugs. "I'd have maybe one drink. I just liked the music."

"Did your friends sneak in too?"

She shakes her head. "I liked having the Green Mill just to myself, you know? Plus, they didn't care about that kind of music." She laughs. "I'm sure the doorman knew I was underage."

He quirks an eyebrow. "You look about nineteen now, so yeah."

"I do not look nineteen!" she protests.

He takes a sip of wine. "Take it for the compliment it is," he says. "Besides, I've seen you hit people. I'm not suggesting you're not tough or professionally respected."

She makes a hmmm noise and continues eating. By the time Thelonius Monk comes on her CD player, they've finished the chicken and opened the white wine.

Somewhere between good food, good music and too much liquor they find themselves in a hazy sort of reverie. Before she realizes it, Teresa is sitting in front of her CD collection, sorting through each album and explaining its meaning to Jane. He sits cross legged on her floor, his attention rapt on each little personal tidbit she gives away. She can practically see him committing them to memory.

At some point they find themselves lying on her living room floor, her head resting on his stomach, like college students. They stare up at the ceiling, the melodies coming from her speakers painting images in their minds.

Tomasz Stanko's softly wailing trumpet sounds, and she gasps. "I lost my virginity to this song," she says before she realizes what she's divulging.

Immediately she tenses, then Jane's hand finds hers, his fingers entwine with hers.

"I lost mine to the Circus Polka, in a shitty trailer outside Toledo," he says.

She bursts out laughing.

"In my defense the polka was coming from outside, not from inside the trailer," he says.

"Who was she?" Teresa asks.

He shrugs, her head shifting on his stomach. "An older woman. She was with the carnival for a while, told fortunes. She was probably in her mid-thirties," he says. Then he adds with a grin, "I'm sure it was the best minute of her life. I was fourteen."

She shakes her head. "Too young. I was in college. He was my boyfriend. I was so nervous, I cried after. I probably gave him a complex." She remembers how bright the blood was on her inner thigh. "I think I was just happy it was over."

His hand squeezes hers again. She feels sleepy, but doesn't want to move.

They stay on her floor, enclosed by the night and the music.

XXX

Teresa wakes up stiff and sore, her neck feeling like she's been tortured. Her feet are cold. She realizes she's on her floor, head on Jane's chest. She can hear his soft breathing. The CDs in her player are still cycling through a repeating playlist.

She nudges Jane. The clock on her stereo says it's three a.m.

"Come to bed," she mutters sleepily.

He opens his eyes. "Mmm?"

"I don't want you driving so late, and it's cold in here," she says. Her brain is foggy with fatigue.

He follows her to her bedroom. They climb fully clothed beneath the sheets, lying next to each other, but not touching. "Nardis" is playing in the living room.

She falls asleep instantly.

XXX

The first painful twangs of country music rouse Teresa from her sleep. She feels too warm, then she realizes she's still dressed and in bed with Jane. He wakes up, putting his hands over his ears. "What is this torture?" he asks.

She gets and flips off the alarm clock radio. "It gets me out of bed," she says.

"Were you trained by Al Qaeda?" he asks grumpily.

She runs a hand through the tangles in her hair. "Will you clear the dining room table while I shower?" she asks. "We never got to it last night. I'll wash the dishes when I get home tonight."

He mutters something incomprehensible, but she hears him getting out of bed as she heads to the bathroom. She lays out a spare towel and toothbrush for Jane.

She showers, does her hair and makeup, brushes her teeth. She returns to her bedroom to change and sees Jane's 'go bag' in the hall. One advantage to being on a team where you might have to leave at a moments' notice, is that you keep spare clothes in your car.

She changes into a suit, and hears him start the shower.

In the kitchen there is toast with Nutella and a cup of coffee. She eats while leaning against the counter, her mind blissfully empty. Jane's breakfast dishes are in the sink.

After a few moments he reappears in the kitchen in a clean suit, his hair damp and smelling of her shampoo.

"Ready to go to work?" she asks.

"Almost," he says. He takes a last sip of his orange juice before putting the glass in the sink. Then he backs her against the counter, weaves his fingers through her hair, and kisses her deeply.

A/N: You know you want to review after that, right?


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

IX.

Jane's kiss is somehow soft, yet bone-meltingly deep. His lips brush hers, feather her skin with soft, begging kisses. It's so gentle that it feels like snowflakes hitting her lips. When she draws in a surprised breath, when she doesn't immediately pull away, he pulls her closer.

His fingers are woven through her hair, his chest warm against hers. He seals his mouth over hers, warm and soft. Jane's kiss is just like him, full of grace and lightness, and surprisingly deceptive. Her hands falter for a moment, then she grasps the lapels of his jacket for support. The wool of his suit scratches her fingertips.

Despite the fact that he hasn't opened his mouth, that the kiss is still G-rated, she feels heat uncoiling low in her belly. All that tender playfulness is a tease, a promise that if he can arouse her with such gentle touches, he can drive her mad with more ardent ones.

He pulls back ever so slightly, just inches from her now. His blue eyes sparkle devilishly at her.

Her lips part, her breath coming out in humid little puffs. Without thinking about it, she leans forward, just a bit, and touches his upper lip with the tip of her tongue.

He closes his eyes and shudders.

She can feel his indecision in that moment, his desire to press her back against the counter and plunder her mouth. His breathing is ragged. The tension hovers between them, blistering hot. She can see them in her mind's eye: locked in a fevered embrace, her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth bruising hers…

Jane squeezes his eyes closed and pulls back. He takes a steadying breath.

"Are you ready to go to work?" he asks.

She almost says, "Are you fucking kidding me?" Instead Teresa says, "Huh?"

The heat in the room evaporates. She feels chilly and damp.

Jane has already collected himself. He is back to being cool and aloof, artfully rumpled. He tugs on his vest, straightening it. "We're going to be late for work," he says as if she's an idiot.

"Right." Her hand trembles as it closes over her travel mug. She's on autopilot as she grabs her briefcase. She fumbles as she locks her door and drops her keys.

"I'll give you a ride," he says, unlocking the Citroën.

She agrees to let him drive her to the office. Quite frankly she doesn't think she has the faculties to drive herself. Jane is acting as though nothing happened, fiddling with his radio, whistling merrily.

Her mind is spinning. He's kissed her twice now; the first time he seemed as confused about it as she was. She was prepared to write it off as an odd moment in their friendship. This time was obviously planned.

She glances at him. He seems completely unaffected, cheerful even. _It's not fair_.

She turns the radio off with a violent flick of her wrist. "What the hell, Jane?" she demands, feeling her face redden.

He glances at her, brows furrowed as if in confusion. "What the hell what?" he replies. "You don't like the Beatles?"

She speaks around gritted teeth. "Why. Did. You. Kiss. Me."

He rolls his eyes. "Because I wanted to, obviously."

She sucks in air, leans back in her seat. "You can't… you can't just do that, Jane."

"Um, I can, and I did," he reminds her peevishly. "In fact you kissed me back." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

"I did not," she seethes.

"Okay, well, where I come from, touching lips and tongues is called 'kissing,'" he says sarcastically. "I know you're a good Catholic girl and all, but…"

She presses her hands to her forehead. "You know what I mean!"

"Not really," he says, turning into the CBI lot. "And I don't know why you're so upset."

She drops her hands and looks at him incredulously. "Because you just crossed a major line, Jane! You can't just kiss me like that. We're friends, we have been for a decade despite whatever…attraction there might have been between us… and now things are going to be all weird between us."

He shakes his blond head in frustration as he parks his car. "First of all, if I had crossed a 'major' line you would have punched me." He turns to face her. "Secondly, we're still friends. Third," he holds up three fingers, "why would things be weird?"

"Because our relationship was platonic before," she snaps.

He snorts. "No it wasn't. Platonic friends don't sleep in the same bed."

"We were fully clothed and not even touching!" she half shouts. "You kissed me because I let you sleep in my bed?"

Too late she realizes she's being loud. She glances out the window to see if anyone passing by heard. The parking lot is blessedly empty this early. Her face gets hot.

He grins at her, all perfect white teeth and sexy little crinkles next to his eyes. "I didn't kiss you because you let me sleep in the bed," he says with a half laugh. "And who says there was no touching?"

She gasps.

"Don't look all put out, Lisbon," he chuckles. "I didn't lay a hand on you. You were the one all snuggled up next to me."

"I was not!"

"I woke up and you were like this needy koala bear, clinging to me," he says. He's such a practiced liar, that she can't tell if he's being honest or not.

"I'm not a snuggler," she growls.

"You are so," he says lightly, dismissively. He steps out of the car, leans down and looks at her. He grins. "And you liked the kiss."

She isn't going to argue that, but she's not going to admit to it either. Leave it to Jane to throw their entire friendship into upheaval and not bat an eyelash. Leave it up to him to make her feel confused and terrified, and not even care.

She storms ahead of him, through the metal detectors, a scowl plastered on her face. When she gets the elevator she stabs the door closed button so that the doors slide shut in his face. She rides up to her floor in angry silence.

If he wasn't so presumptuous, if he wasn't so arrogant…

She barely acknowledges the team. She slams the door to her office and stays there all day.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

X.

Jane "naps" on his couch all day, smothering a grin as he thinks of Teresa seething inside her office.

_Teresa_… When did she become Teresa instead of Lisbon?

He supposes that it was really with that first kiss, the one he didn't intend. It had felt so second nature to kiss her tenderly before work; that touch fell so easily within their routine.

That was when he realized everything had changed, not at the moment of Red John's death, but slowly over a decade. When his daughter, or rather his hallucination of her, asked who really knew him, the answer was easy. He'd tried to be charming and evasive with Lisbon over the years, but she'd always seen through it. She'd seen all his ugliness and forgiven him for it.

When he'd gone into his fugue and reverted to his less than loveable past persona, only Lisbon had seen past the sarcasm, the lies, the manipulation, the womanizing. She'd seen the thief, the liar, the heartbreaker, and known that beneath all of it was a decent man. A frightened man.

The charisma and charm were just a mask after all, hiding the bitter truth. If you conned someone first, then you could never be the mark yourself. Patrick Jane was afraid of being used; he was afraid of not being good enough.

Angela had proven to him that he was worthy of love and capable of loving back. Even then he still played the psychic, only letting his disguise fall at home.

It is only with Teresa that he is brave enough to let the façade slip away little by little, in everyday moments.

He never feels worthy of Teresa, of her never-ending patience, but he does feel accepted by her, even loved.

It is natural that now he would realize how much he loves her back.

He sighs, wonders if he's risking the beautiful friendship they have by pushing her boundaries. She could run away from him, a thought that makes his pulse quicken in terror. Still, he knows that once he recognizes a challenge, he has a pathological urge to meet it. He'd never rest knowing he loved her, keeping it bottled up. He has a need to succeed or self-destruct.

He hears her office door bang open as she goes to get coffee. She tosses a glare in his direction; he does a little finger wave in return.

He knows that if the kiss hadn't been welcome on some level, she would have hit him, or worse, talked him down like an understanding big sister. That would have been humiliating. The tiny touch of her tongue had been all the confirmation he needed to know she feels the buzz of attraction between them too.

He rolls onto his side, cushioning his head with his arm. He doesn't want to push things too far too fast—not for Lisbon's sake, but for his. He hasn't been in a relationship in ten years, and he's not sure he'd make a great partner. He had been selfish and cruel before Angela; sometimes it's easy for him to slip into old habits.

He's also afraid she'll break his heart. Teresa would have any number of potential suitors if she looked up from her job now and then, if she realized how beautiful she is. He'd have a hard time competing with a man like Greg, stable, loving, without all the extra baggage.

He also hasn't slept with anyone he cared about in a decade. Sex has never been an issue, but intimacy is a whole different game. He might disappoint her. He might simply be boring old Jane, the man she sees every day, the man whose flaws and scars she knows by heart.

This is going to be the hardest thing he's ever tried to pull off, he thinks. He's determined though; he will make Teresa Lisbon fall in love with him.

XXX

Teresa waits until it's ridiculously late before exiting her office. She's confident that by now Jane is either asleep or he's retreated.

She is, of course, wrong.

He's sitting on his couch, legs elegantly crossed, reading. His blue tea cup perches on the arm of the sofa.

"You don't take a hint, do you?" she asks.

"Are you hungry?" Jane asks, snapping the book shut. "I'm starving. I haven't had dinner."

"I'm going home, Jane," she replies, voice short. She hauls her briefcase strap over her shoulder.

"Well, I drove you here remember," he says cautiously. "I have to drive you home."

_Shit._

She grits her teeth. "You planned that."

He rolls his eyes. "Obviously." He puts on his jacket. He looks so sexy in shirtsleeves and his vest. It's not fair. He says, "Quit ogling me."

She feels her face flush. "I was not."

He walks over to her, takes the briefcase. She fights it for a moment, like a stubborn child, before letting him carry it. He puts his hand on her lower back as they enter the elevator and she feels the heat of his touch spread down to her toes.

Definitely not fair.

"Do not get ideas," she says harshly.

He sighs. "Too late. I've had ideas for years."

Her eyes widen. "Years?"

The elevator dings as they pass each floor.

"Remember the black dress you wore to that fundraiser?" He sighs again, but this time it's wistful. "I had no idea what you were hiding under all those blazers."

She feels somehow gratified and embarrassed. She crosses her arms over her chest self-consciously.

His car is the only one in the parking lot when they exit the building. He opens the door for her like a gentleman, but then he always has.

Once he pulls out of the parking lot he says, "Can we at least stop at a drive through?" He adds petulantly, "I really am starving."

She sighs. "Fine, but you're buying."

"For you? Nothing but the best," he jokes.

The pull into a burger joint and a get a sack full of greasy fries and cheeseburgers. Jane orders two diet sodas, even though it's well past the time either of them should be drinking caffeine.

They ride in silence, Teresa munching the occasional fry.

"I left my clothes from the day before at your place," he says when they pull up in front of her condo. "Can I come in and get them?"

She grumbles something that he takes as an affirmative, and he follows her to her door.

Once their inside she marches up the stairs. "I'm putting on my pajamas," she shouts after him. "Lock up on your way out."

It takes her only minutes to change into sweatpants and an old tee-shirt. She pulls her hair back into a functional ponytail.

She isn't at all surprised to still find him there when she gets downstairs. He's set her food out on a plate, his own fast-food meal sitting untouched across from hers. He's in the kitchen, doing the dishes they left the night before.

She leans against the kitchen doorway. She's afraid to go in. Things happen in that kitchen.

"I can do them later, Jane," she says.

"You cooked, I'll wash up," he offers.

"I'm kind of kicking you out here," she says.

He grins. "I know. I'm ignoring you. And you can come into the kitchen. I'm not going to attack you."

She sighs in resignation and comes in. She takes the wet plates from him and dries them.

"Why are you so difficult?" she asks finally.

"It's kind of my thing," he replies. He takes the last plate from her and puts it away. "Come on, our food is getting cold and that stuff isn't that great even when it's hot."

She follows him into the dining room fully aware that she's lost. Jane is obviously spending the night.

She takes a sip of her diet soda and regards him with narrow eyes.

He grins at her.

This time he'd better be on the couch, she decides.

A/N: Please review! Please?!


	12. Chapter 12

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XI.

Jane wakes up to the shrill ring of Teresa's cell phone. It takes him a minute to register his surroundings; he's on her sofa in his slacks and shirtsleeves, a light chenille throw over him.

Last night she'd tossed the pillow and spare blankets on the sofa pointedly before marching off the bed. She might have won the battle, but he is winning the war.

The noise from her phone is piercing, shooting daggers into his skull. She must turn the ringer all the way up so she doesn't sleep through it, he thinks.

The ringing stops when she answers it. Moments later he hears the bedroom door open and she comes downstairs, her gait drunk with fatigue. She leans against the railing as she looks at him, her hair a mess, blue-purple smudges under her eyes. "We've got a case," she says drowsily. "Be ready in fifteen. I'm taking the shower so you'll have to skip it."

"Sure."

She makes her way back upstairs and he feels the urge to call whoever-it-was back and tell them to go to hell. He wants to tuck her into bed and make sure she actually sleeps enough for once. He hates seeing her ragged and exhausted.

Instead he gets up with a sigh and goes to her spare bedroom-turned office. The room she never uses since she lives at her office at work. He opens the door to the closet and pulls out a fresh suit, underwear and socks.

He grins. He moved this stuff in while she was sick, and she still hasn't found it. It just shows how little she goes in the room. He's got his shaving it and toothbrush hidden in her half-bath, and he uses it while she showers. The half-bath has some horrible rubber-ducky themed wallpaper, obviously intended for a child, but she hasn't bothered to change it. He hates the little yellow duckies staring at him while he washing up; it's creepy.

He can hear the shower turn off.

Teresa in the shower.

Teresa in the shower in his arms…

The thought is sexy. Of course at the time she was delirious with fever so it wasn't sexy then. The idea is sexy now.

Teresa beating him to death with a shampoo bottle. Less sexy.

He meets her in the hallway in front of her door, puts on his shoes. Her hair is still damp. She's used makeup to hide her exhaustion. The light on her microwave, just visible from here, reads three a.m.

"Is that a different suit?" she asks.

"Does it look like one?" he asks back.

She just shakes her head and opens the door. "I'll drive."

XXX

Teresa has to dodge puddles of rainwater and blood. The corpse has been washed clean by the downpour from earlier that night. It makes the body look all the more ghoulish, glistening white and bloodless. The woman's eyes stare sightlessly into the sky.

The air is damp and chilly and she can smell more rain not far off. The team tries to hurry, so they can move the body.

She's half-listening to the responding officer tell her how he found the woman stabbed to death on the front lawn of a state senator. The other half of her attention is directed at Jane who's doing his usual routine of poking his nose into places it doesn't belong.

When she loses sight of him, she knows he's gone into the senator's house. She lets out a sigh. "I'll be back," she tells the officer.

She follows Jane's wet footsteps across the marble entryway floor and up the stairs. Most of the doors are closed, but she can hear the murmur of his voice coming from down the hall. She pushes open a door and sees Jane sitting on the floor next to a child's bed. His legs are crossed and he's holding a stuffed penguin and an American Girl doll in each hand.

The room is lit only by a pink fairy nightlight and she can just barely see the little girl's face poking out from under her bed.

"But how did the prince get turned into a penguin?" she asks, her voice small.

"Well, he angered an evil witch who—Oh, hi, Lisbon," he says. "This is Sarah. She says she got scared when she heard a lady scream and hid under the bed. This is my friend Teresa," he says to the little girl.

"I like your hair," says Sarah.

Teresa crouches down on the floor. "Thank you," she says. "Your doll is very pretty."

"Patrick likes her too," Sarah says. "He said his daughter had one just like her."

Something kicks inside Teresa's chest. She reaches a hand under the bed. "Do you think you could come out? My friend Wayne was going to run to the shop down the street for hot chocolate. Would you like some?"

The little girl nods and takes her hand. She scoots out from under the bed. She takes Jane's hand in her other one, and walks in between the two of them down the stairs. Jane still holds her doll. At the bottom of the steps Teresa glances up and catches sight of them in a large mirror. A family. Jane, Teresa, a dark haired little girl.

She feels a sensation of want so intense it almost makes her eyes sting with tears. She breaks out in a cold sweat.

"Sarah, can you wait with Patrick?" she asks. Her voice hitches on his first name.

Damn that kiss for putting thoughts like this into her head. They certainly weren't there before.

The girl nods solemnly.

She hurries outside where it's begun to rain again. She stands in the downpour, letting each icy drop startle her back to reality.

A/N: I'm traveling for work next week so I'm going to try and get as much written as possible this weekend. Reviews would help motivate me!


	13. Chapter 13

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: You guys are the best! Hopefully I'll be able to post some chapters remotely so you won't have to wait very long for an update.

XII.

Jane watches Teresa stand in the icy rain. Sarah's hand is warm in his own.

Teresa's face had gone pale when they'd walked down the stairs; he'd seen it reflected in the large mirror in the foyer. He wonders what startled her so much. He looks down at Sarah. Her dark eyes are large and worried.

"My friend is a police officer," he tells her. "She's the best there is. She'll make sure you're safe."

Sarah squeezes his hand. "I heard the scream and I got really scared. The bad man won't come for me will he?"

He thinks of Charlotte and his mouth goes dry. "No he won't. Teresa and I will make sure of that." He pauses. "Did you see a man?"

She nods. "When I heard the scream I maybe peeked out the window," she confesses. "But just real quick. Then I hid." She takes her doll from him and hugs it tightly.

He keeps her calm, and asks her a series of gentle questions about what she saw. Whenever she looks scared again they talk about her doll, Molly, and all the adventures she has. Eventually he can tell she's getting tired. He leaves her with her nanny and finds Lisbon.

She's standing out of the rain now, under an awning the crime scene techs set up, talking to the team. Her hair is curling in the dampness and her arms are crossed; she's shivering just a little. He resists the urge to rub her arms and warm her up.

"Sarah saw a white man in a dark hooded sweatshirt stab the woman," he says. "She didn't recognize him. He got into a large dark car, probably an SUV, and drove off."

Teresa nods. "That's not much to go on, but it's something. Where is she now?"

"With the nanny," Jane replies. "Don't forget you promised her hot chocolate."

Teresa pinches the bridge of her nose. He can tell she's getting a headache. "That's right. Rigs, could you get her a hot chocolate and maybe some coffee for the team?" She looks at her watch. "It's five already. There has to be a Starbucks open."

"Sure." Rigsby tucks his pen into his jacket pocket, puts his notepad away. He looks happy to get out of the rain.

"I'll go with you," Jane offers. He doesn't know why, but he gets the feeling Teresa might want some space. It frightens him a little.

They find a Starbucks a few miles down the road. Jane orders tea, a hot chocolate, and a decaf mocha for Teresa. Rigsby recites the rest of the team's order by memory. When they get back in the car, Rigsby asks, "Lisbon okay?"

"Sure," Jane says, sipping his tea.

"She seems spooked by something," Rigsby presses. "And don't tell me you didn't notice, because you notice everything."

Jane's face remains completely aloof and impassive, but inside he winces. "I think something about the little girl is bothering her."

"You don't know?" Rigsby scoffs. "I thought you had all of us figured out."

Jane wants to say, _I've never had Teresa Lisbon figured out_, but he keeps that to himself. Instead he says, "I'm tired. Off my game."

Rigsby sighs. "I hear that. Ben sleeps like four hours a night. I don't think I remember what REM sleep is."

Jane smiles. "I remember those days. Or the nights when Charlotte would sleep in the middle three-quarters of the bed."

He can tell Rigsby is put off by his remark. He normally doesn't discuss his daughter or his wife. Now that Red John is dead though, he finds it easier to relive those memories. The sting is still there, but bittersweet.

"I guess I still have that to look forward to," Rigsby says cautiously. "Ben is still in his crib and all."

Red and blue flashing lights ahead mark the crime scene. The sun is coming up now and the morning is milky-pale, the rain turning to fog. They make their way to the awning and pass out the beverages. An officer offers to bring Sarah her chocolate.

Teresa sips her coffee and sighs in pleasure. He feels gratified knowing he made her happy for at least a moment.

She takes another sip and squints her eyes. "Is this decaf?"

"You can tell?" Rigsby asks incredulously.

"Tastes different," she mutters.

"It does not," Jane argues. "Besides, you had a Diet Coke at eleven-thirty. You don't need more caffeine."

Heads swivel in their direction. Van Pelt and Rigsby are visibly startled. Cho is…Cho.

"I worked late," Teresa covers smoothly. "Jane and I grabbed fast food."

"At eleven thirty," Cho says flatly. "You shouldn't work so hard boss."

He doesn't sound suspicious, but it's Cho. He could be implying something, he could be teasing them; Jane isn't sure. He suspects it's the latter.

Jane can't help it. He grins at Van Pelt's slightly scandalized expression. "It was fast food, Grace," he says quietly.

She blushes and turns away.

When the team is out of earshot, Teresa says, "Great, now we have that rumor started."

Jane shrugs. "Meh. They might wonder but they won't talk. They're too loyal to you." He finishes his tea in a quick gulp. "Besides, we haven't done anything wrong."

She seems unconvinced, but he doesn't push it.

XXX

Teresa sits by the glow of her computer, the windows long since having gone dark. They've worked the day through and are no closer to solving the murder. She has a headache, the muscles in her neck knotted and sore.

She knows that it's largely sleep-deprivation and a little anxiety. The team are wondering about Jane and her now, why they spend so much time together. They've always been close, there have always been rumors, but now that Jane has kissed her she feels like she's wearing a big neon sign that says, 'we made on it' on it.

Of course they didn't really make out, she reasons, and she wonders why she feels disappointed about that.

That kiss has opened a Pandora's box of unacknowledged desires. She wants more Jane-kisses. She wants more nights in front of the TV with him. She wants a dark-haired little girl who holds both their hands.

The question is, what does Jane want. What is he capable of? He acknowledged that he is attracted to her, but that's it. She knows he trusts her. Does Jane want a relationship with her? Is that why he's pushing her boundaries? Can he even commit to something long term anymore?

She wonders if it's just a delayed reaction to Red John's death, some sort of emotional acting out after being so bottled up for years.

She rubs at her temples.

The doors whisper open and Jane strolls in like he owns the place. "It's getting really late," he comments. "You need sleep."

"I need to give you a ride home, don't I?" she asks, resigned.

"Well, my car is at your place," he points out. He studies her a moment. "Headache?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

He walks behind her chair, sets his hands gently on her shoulders. She tenses up immediately.

"Relax, Teresa, or this won't work," he says softly. He presses his thumbs into the skin on either side of her neck, applying a hard pressure. Initially she feels a twinge of pain shoot all the way up into her skull, then the pain starts to fade and leaves behind a warm sort of relaxation.

He repeats the procedure in a few different places, a hard pressure, a sharp pain of inflamed muscles and nerves, followed by relief. When he finds one particularly large knot he begins to knead it, loosening the muscle.

Her headache fades, leaving her sleepy. "Why haven't you done this before?" she asks drowsily.

"Would you have let me?" he asks.

"If I knew it felt this good," she murmurs.

He chuckles. It's a dark and thrilling sound. "I bet you say that to all the guys."

She'd blush, but she doesn't have the energy for it.

He pats her shoulder. "Let's go home, Teresa. We both need sleep."

Sighing she shuts down her computer, grabs her jacket and keys. When she stands up he's still directly behind her, too close. She pauses a moment, then without thinking about it, she hugs him. She feels him hesitate, then he closes his arms around her. He rests his cheek on the top of her head.

They stand like that for awhile, his shirt soft on her cheek. He is warm and large and feels very good. She sighs when they part.

"What was that for?" he asks a little hoarsely.

"You can kiss me but I can't hug you?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I was just …surprised," he replies carefully.

"Hmm. I managed to surprise the great Patrick Jane," she says. "Who knew."

He follows her out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XIII.

Teresa doesn't even expect Jane to go to his car once they get back to her apartment.

He doesn't disappoint her, following her inside and out of the rain. He helps her out of her rain-slicked coat, and hangs it on the peg to dry.

She goes to her bedroom without a word, closing the door and changing into pajama bottoms and an old sweatshirt. She goes to the bathroom, scrubs off her makeup, brushes her teeth. She opens her medicine cabinet and takes two Tylenol P.M. for her head. When she shuts the water off, she can hear Jane puttering around downstairs.

She comes to the bottom of the staircase, bites her lip as she watches him straighten the blankets on the couch.

He's in his shirtsleeves, vest unbuttoned. The light from her lamp makes his hair shine red-gold and curly. He sleeves are pushed up. The blond hairs on his forearms glisten in the dim light.

She sucks in a deep breath and says, "Do you want to come to bed?"

She sees Jane freeze, the edge of a sheet fisted in his hand. She can see his hesitation.

She crosses her arms over her stomach. "I mean…just to sleep. I wasn't… I wasn't asking you for sex."

She wonders if she's taken this too far, their little domestic game. They've been playing house and now she's made this more real than either of them are prepared to deal with.

His eyes look large and dark. "Are you sure?"

She curls her bare toes into the carpet. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm not…it's just been a long time since I've slept with anyone," he says.

"You slept with me the other night," she says quietly. She uncurls her toes. "And after Red John died."

"We were drunk the last time," he says. "I honestly don't remember much the first time."

She feels suddenly foolish, her skin too hot. "I'm sorry, I clearly over-stepped a boundary, and I didn't mean to do that. I know how isolated you've been and—"

"I'd really like to go to bed with you," he says, interrupting. "To sleep," he adds.

Suddenly she isn't so sure. She picks at the hem of her sweatshirt self-consciously. He doesn't move from the couch, his eyes watching her intently. "Do you even own pajamas?" she asks.

"I uh…used to sleep naked," he replies. "I still do. When I'm at a hotel or…"

"Okay," she interrupts quickly. "I just thought that the wool pants can't be comfortable."

He shrugs. "I don't care about comfortable so much anymore."

"One of my exes left some sweatpants here," she says. "They'd fit you, I think."

He's still watching her, leonine, vaguely unsettling. "Sure."

He follows her upstairs and she digs the sweatpants out of her bottom drawer. She hands them to him and he goes to the bathroom. She turns off the bedroom lights, all except the one on the bedside table next to the side Jane sleeps on. She climbs into bed and pulls the sheet over her shoulder. She hears the toilet flush, the water running.

She closes her eyes, breathes deep, and counts to ten.

They've shared a bed before. Why is this suddenly weird?

The thing is, she wants to sleep with him. She wants the comfort of him next her, the warmth of his body, the sound of his breathing. They've entered a strange gray area of their friendship, finding comfort in each other in ways that are not strictly platonic.

He walks into the bedroom wearing only sweatpants. She's seen his naked chest before, but in less than stellar circumstances. She remembers watching the paramedics try to resuscitate him after he drowned.

He's not muscular per say, but defined, masculine. He's naturally well-built and attractive. For some reason the sight of his bare feet feels particularly intimate.

She stays on her side, facing away from him as he climbs into bed. He shuts off the light and they both lie there in the darkness, hardly moving.

After what feels like forever, he says, "This is awkward."

She can't help herself. She laughs. She rolls onto her back and takes his hand. "I guess it's different when we're both in possession of all our faculties."

He rolls onto his side, facing her. Hesitantly he touches her stomach, then lets his arm fall over her waist. "Goodnight, Teresa."

"Night Jane," she whispers.

Eventually the meds kick in and see drifts off into a foggy sleep.

Jane lies beside her for hours, listening to her soft, deep breathing. The fabric of her shirt is soft against the bare skin of his arm. He can smell her shampoo in the dark.

He has to fight the urge to lean over and kiss her lips. He has to make this enough, just for tonight.

It's more than he's had in a long time, this intimacy. He's known Teresa better than anyone else in the past decade, but this level of closeness is a new and thrilling surprise. It shocks him how much it means just to hold her like this.

He deprived himself of so much for too long. He thought maybe his urge to be close to her was about sex, but now he realizes what he really missed most was holding someone and being held. Sex is easy enough to come by, an urge than can be satisfied without much effort—at least on his part. Cuddling, he realizes with a grin, is much harder to come by. You can't pay for that kind affection, or con it, not genuinely.

He resists the urge to kiss her; he keeps this safe, just for now.

The rain hits the window outside, and he sleeps.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XIV.

Teresa wakes up with Jane's hand on the bare skin of her stomach. He's pressed up against her back, spooning her, his breath hot on her neck.

The alarm hasn't gone off yet; her bladder is what woke her up.

She shifts out of his embrace, and then she feels it, unmistakable against her bottom. She freezes. He's still sound asleep, his breathing even. It's a natural reaction, she reasons, it doesn't mean anything. He's not even conscious.

Besides, she's an adult woman. None of this is a mystery to her.

She scoots out of bed, uses the bathroom. It's early, but she can't climb back in there with him, not with…_that_ in there too.

She goes down to her kitchen, puts on the coffee, and starts scrambling eggs. As the eggs cook her windows brighten, the sun coming up and chasing away the gloom from yesterday.

She hears Jane pad into the kitchen. He's rumpled, his hair a curly mess, sleep lines etching his face. He rubs at his jaw and yawns.

"You're up early," he remarks drowsily.

"Couldn't fall back asleep," she lies. She scoops the eggs onto a plate. "Hungry?"

"For eggs? Always." He takes the plate with a smile.

They eat at the kitchen table. She pretends not to be unnerved by the fact that he's shirtless.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, sipping her coffee.

"Better than I have in years," he answers with an honesty that surprises her. He grins again. "I must find your snoring very soothing."

She snorts, brushes her hair out of her eyes. "I do not snore."

He sips his orange juice. "I beg to differ."

She rolls her eyes and takes her plate into the kitchen. "I'm going to get in the shower. We still have a killer to find."

"It's the senator," he says blithely.

She stops. "Do you know something I don't?"

He snorts. "It's always the politician, Lisbon. Don't you watch TV?"

She shakes her head. "Right."

They follow their usual routine of taking turns in the bathroom. They reach the kitchen at the same time; she fills up her travel mug and he stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame casually, hands in his pockets.

She swears that's a new suit.

"This is familiar," he says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Jane," she warns, shifting on her feet.

"C'mon, Teresa, this is the best part of my day," he says.

She sighs, stands on her tip toes and brushes a kiss on his cheek. He sets his hands gently on her waist, turns his head, and kisses her lips.

He pauses, gives her the chance to pull back. When she doesn't, he angles his head, drawing her closer to his body.

She keeps the travel mug clutched tightly in one hand, the other grasps the lapel of his jacket.

This isn't his sweet butterfly kiss from before. There is no question that is more than affection. He parts her lips with his, slides his tongue into her mouth. She kisses him back, flickering, hot, velvet against velvet. She feels want pool heavily in her stomach. She feels his want against her stomach, too.

She moans a little when he pulls away.

"We need to go to work," he says, his voice just a little shaky.

"Yeah," she whispers, dazed.

She drives this time, Jane sitting beside her uncomfortably.

As they wait at a stoplight she asks, "Did we just do something really stupid?"

He reaches out and touches her hand. "I hope not."

XXX

"You were wrong you know," Teresa says flippantly as she stirs her coffee.

She, Jane and Van Pelt are in the CBI break room, hitting the caffeine hard after hours of fruitless interviews.

Jane drops his teabag in the waste bin. "I doubt that," he says arrogantly. "It's hypothetically possible, but it hasn't happened yet."

She smirks over the rim of her mug. "So far nothing is pointing to Senator Stevens."

Van Pelt adds milk to her coffee, looking up at Jane. "You think it's Stevens?" she asks.

He rolls his eyes. "It's always the politician! C'mon you guys!" He throws his hands in the air.

Van Pelt says, "He could just be a normal person, Jane. Not all politicians have to be evil."

"Of course they do," he argues. "They make them take an evil test when they're being vetted for office."

Both woman snort in derision.

Cho strides into the room. "We have a break," he says urgently. He looks pointedly at Jane. "Also the Senator's office is calling to complain about Jane."

"That's a shock," Teresa says dryly. She sets her mug on the counter. "Let's go."

XXX

Teresa squints under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the emergency room. Her left forearm has an ugly row of zig-zag stitches protruding from the swollen pink skin. She didn't feel the pain when she went through the window, but she feels it now.

"Ow!" She hears Jane yell from the other side of the curtain.

She rolls her eyes. "I've got sixteen stitches here, Jane. You can manage get two pieces of glass taken out of your hand."

"It _stings_," he insists. "And you were the one who went through the window, not me. I was collateral damage."

"When I tackled the gardener, I didn't think he'd go through the window," she says dryly, watching the nurse wrap her arm up in gauze. "Take some Motrin, you'll be fine you big baby."

He pushes the curtain aside and gives her a withering look. "Yes, well, we can't all be as bad ass as Teresa Lisbon. Some of us are cursed with more delicate constitutions."

She laughs.

"You two are a cute couple," the nurse remarks with a grin.

Teresa feels her face flush. "Oh no, we're not—"

"Married twelve years now," Jane interrupts. "We met a dog show, can you believe that? The little lady here used to breed pugs. I'm horribly allergic. She gave up her career just for me."

The nurse beams at him. "That's so sweet."

When she walks away Teresa eyes him darkly. "If you're so allergic, why were you at a dog show in the first place?"

"To pick up sexy, petite brunettes," he says as if it's obvious.

"You think I'm sexy?" she asks before she can help herself.

"That wasn't obvious this morning?" he asks softly, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

"I thought you were asleep!" she hisses, her face reddening.

"I was mostly asleep," he replies easily. "It's a natural reaction…blah…blah…blah." He grabs his jacket and helps her off the table. While they're still alone he presses a quick peck to her forehead. "Don't worry about it, Teresa."

She wonders what that means. Don't worry about it, I won't act on it? Don't worry about it, I want you but I'll wait for you to make the first move?

She sighs and shakes her head. Maybe she should just jump him and get it out of both their systems. _That would be a great way to torpedo whatever we have going_, she thinks sarcastically.

Jane tugs her good arm. "C'mon Lisbon, we have case closed pizza and painkillers waiting for us."

"You do not get painkillers for that girlie cut," she replies.

"Meh."


	16. Chapter 16

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Thanks to everyone for being so patient. Things are heating up; tell me what you think!

XV.

They get back to the office and Teresa's stitches feel hot and itchy. She should take some time off and rest, but she knows she won't. She touches her hair and pulls a tiny piece of glass from the brown tendril.

"I can't believe you went through that window, Boss," Van Pelt says, greeting her with a steaming cup of coffee. "You're lucky you weren't hurt worse."

When the gardener had fled, she'd chased him out to the sun room, tackling him before he could get away. Unfortunately she'd had more momentum than she'd planned, and they'd both gone right through the floor to ceiling window and onto the lawn outside. She was lucky she hadn't cut up her face or severed an artery. Of course the perp had gotten away with mere scratches.

Jane, gallantly trying to help her off the floor after hiding from any actual danger, had slipped, caught his balance on the floor, and gotten glass in the palm of his hand.

She glances at him. With the way he is cradling the injury, a passerby would think it's a war wound.

She scratches at her arm.

"Don't pick at that," Jane says sourly. "It'll never heal." He looks at Van Pelt. "No tea? That's not very fair. Lisbon got coffee."

Van Pelt rolls her eyes. "No one can make it the way you like," she replies.

"Lisbon can," Jane mutters.

"You're just grumpy because it was the gardener, not the senator like you thought," Lisbon replies with a smirk. She sips her coffee and sighs in pleasure. "You're not always right, Jane."

Jane looks indignant. "I resent—"

Jane is cut off by Rigsby, striding into the kitchenette, waiving a sheaf of papers. "Boss, I think we know why the gardener ran!"

"He's the killer?" Teresa says hopefully.

"Warrant out for his arrest," Rigsby says. "Drug trafficking."

Jane smirks.

Teresa glowers at him. "Make sure he's not our guy. His car still matches the one seen speeding away from the house."

"There are a lot of dark sedans out there," Jane replies smugly.

Teresa narrows her eyes. "Shouldn't you go ice your 'injury' or something?" She puts as much sarcasm into the word 'injury' as humanly possible.

Jane holds his wounded hand aloft. "I appreciate your concern for my welfare," he says smoothly, "but I'll be fine."

She rolls her eyes. "Okay, we've got more digging to do."

XXX

Teresa sits in her office, fiddles with her pen. Her arm hurts. She's tired.

Normally she stays late without complaint, but normally she goes home to an empty house. Knowing that Jane will be there makes the temptation to call it a day almost unbearable. Only the memory of the murdered woman keeps her at her desk.

She thinks about taking a hot bath and then crawling into bed with Jane, feeling his warmth at her back. She thinks of sleeping late the next morning and sharing hot, slow kisses in her kitchen.

She thinks about sliding her fingers between the buttons of his crisp white shirt, of feeling the heat of his skin against her fingertips. She knows his chest is smooth, nearly hairless. She imagines kissing the base of his throat and feeling him shudder beneath her lips.

She drops the pen.

That's the problem; ever since that kiss nothing is forbidden anymore. It's opened a Pandora's box of guilty pleasures. One kiss could lead to so much more.

She wonders if Jane would be frightened if he knew how much she desired him; not scared physically, but of the intimacy she craves. Aside from his tryst with Lorelei he's been more or less celibate, and all that affair told her was that he is as in control of his body sexually as he is of his heart rate or blood pressure. It told her how cold and calculating he could be.

She knows it's not a lie when he kisses her, touches her. She's felt his trembling, heard the hitch in his breathing. She can tell he wants her—that much was certainly obvious that morning—but was he prepared for the emotional onslaught that would inevitably come from sex between friends?

She twirls the pen. This is all assuming they have sex, she rationalizes, which they aren't. She's his boss, sort of. They are both emotionally impaired.

It would probably be awkward.

Twirl.

Or just really sweet and tender.

Twirl.

Or incredibly, mind-blowingly hot.

She drops the pen, puts her face in her hands.

She wonders if Jane would run if she just straddled him one morning in bed and got it out of her system. He might hide in the attic for days.

Her door opens and Jane pokes his blond head inside the door.

He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses. She blushes wondering if he can tell she was thinking of sex.

Then he says the five words she dreads. "Lisbon, I have an idea."


	17. Chapter 17

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XVI.

Jane is pretty sure Teresa is thinking about sex. He's not sure why, but she looks like a guilty school girl when he pokes his head in the door. He wants to know exactly what she's thinking about, in full Technicolor detail. For a moment a litany of naughty potential fantasies parade through his mind, each more delectable than the first.

He clears his throat and says, "Lisbon, I have an idea."

He can see her get that "Oh, no" look on her face.

"Really," he says. "It's great. It proves the senator is the killer."

She sighs. "Jane there is no connection between him and the victim. None."

"So a dead girl winds up on his lawn by accident?" he asks skeptically.

"I didn't say it wasn't odd," she counters.

"Come on, Teresa," he pleads. "It'll close the case and then we can go home."

_We can go home_. It sounds so natural.

She sighs and closes the open folder she's been doodling on.

"Fine," she says, grabbing her jacket. "But this better not end with a complaint on my desk."

XXX

There is no complaint on her desk when they finally have the murderer in custody—instead it's a summons to Bertram's office.

Teresa feels a sour burn starting in her stomach while she waits for Bertram to see her. She knows he's keeping her in his secretary's office, cooling her heels, on purpose. It's like being a little kid waiting for the principal.

Bertram's secretary—administrative assistant, she corrects herself—looks at her over the top of her glasses like a disapproving teacher.

Teresa sighs. She could strangle Jane.

After an endless wait she's finally called into Bertram's inner sanctum. She can feel the tension in the air the minute she hits the door.

The director is behind his desk, hands folded on his stomach. His expression couldn't be more puckered and displeased if he'd swallowed a glass of vinegar.

"Agent Lisbon, sit down."

It's an order, not an offer. She takes the seat across from his desk coolly, crosses her legs.

"Senator Collins called me today to tell me that he was going to personally make it is his mission in life to see that the CBI's state funding gets cut." He cuts straight to the chase, which she appreciates on some level. The cool rage in his voiced makes her wince internally.

"The senator is understandably emotional right now," she replies calmly. "I'm sure once he has time to think…"

"When he has time to _dwell _on it?" Bertram counters angrily. "I doubt thinking about how his wife was arrested for murder after he was publicly humiliated at his own fundraiser will make him any friendlier toward us."

"His wife _committed_ murder," she points out a little hotly. "And if he was humiliated—"

"If?" Bertram interrupts. His voice is just shy of shouting. His face starts to turn an alarming shade of red. "Jane called him an adulterer and murderer in front of a room full of California's wealthiest, most prominent citizens!"

"Sir, we needed his wife to think we were pursuing him for the murder, we needed her to let her guard down," Teresa counters, placing her hands out palms up. "Granted Jane took it a little far with that comment but—"

Bertram slams his fists on his desk and she fights the urge to jump in surprise. "Enough!" he shouts. He visibly calms himself, straightens his tie. "You make too many excuses for that man."

Teresa swallows. "He closes cases," she says quietly.

"And if we have no funding, there will be no cases to close because we'll all be out of work," Bertram snaps. "You clearly need some space to think about your relationship with Mr. Jane."

Teresa's face grows hot. She wonders what he's heard. How could he know about those secret kisses?

"You're too soft on him," Bertram continues, and she realizes he didn't mean anything of a personal nature. "You clearly can't manage him."

"Jane is by definition unmanageable," she retorts. "That's why he gets the job done when others fail."

"You'll have to prove to me your team is capable without him," he continues, ignoring her remark. "He's off your team. One month. Unpaid suspension."

"He may just leave you know," Teresa snaps. "Red John is dead. Nothing is holding him here."

Bertram snorts. "Maybe that would be better for everyone."

She wants to slap him.

He points to the door, dismissing her like a dog. "Prove to me you're still a cop Agent Lisbon because right now all I see is a woman who rides Mr. Jane's coattails. Prove to me you can actually close a case on your own."

Words that would make the nuns that taught her faint are on her tongue. Her hands form fists as she storms from his office, desperate to hit something.

XXX

She doesn't go back to the office. She can't face Jane or the team. She's furious with her errant consultant and humiliated at Bertram's assertions that she's no longer a good police officer. Her badge has meant everything to her, and she can't stomach the thought that people assume she's merely Jane's lovely assistant. The idea makes her want to spit.

She drives aimlessly for a bit, then heads home. Her apartment is silent and she relishes the time alone. She pours herself a glass of wine and sulks.

She's still at a lower simmer when her door opens and Jane saunters in.

"So you got hauled out in front of the brass?" he asks as if it's nothing.

"You're on a one month unpaid suspension," she says with quiet rage.

Jane opens her fridge, scans its contents. "You're kidding me. For insulting the senator?"

"He's going to make it his mission to cut our funding, Jane," she hisses. "You can't mess with powerful people."

He shrugs. "Meh."

"Don't 'meh' me!" she actually shouts.

Jane jumps, looks at her with wild eyes. He closes the fridge door.

"Do you know what Bertram said to me?" she seethes. "He said I can't close a case without you! That you're propping me up!"

Jane has the sense to look abashed. "Teresa, don't listen to that blow hard."

"He's the director, Jane! I have to listen to him! Unlike you, who listens to no one, regardless of the hurt you cause them. I thought you would have learned when…" she trails off, the words turning to poison in her mouth.

"When Red John killed my family?" he asks in a tone so frosty it makes her shiver.

"Jane," she says softly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

He looks at her, cold, angry, unreachable. All his kisses turn to ash in that second. "No, you shouldn't have," he says quietly.

She feels tears prickling at her eyes. She's still hurt, still angry, and now she's regretting hurting him as well. She draws in a breath. "Maybe you better go," she says hoarsely.

He turns away from her, heads for the door. "I think that's a good idea."

The slamming of the door echoes through the small space. She feels as hollow as that echo.

A/N: I wrote this while on cold medicine, so forgive any errors. Please, please, please review!


	18. Chapter 18

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XVII.

Jane finds a seedy bar to drown his sorrows in. It's the sort of establishment where no one will bother him.

His whiskey lacks the reassuring burn going down, instead it sears his throat like acid. He orders another. He doesn't feel numb yet.

Anger and shame burn like a hot coal, lodged beneath his ribs. He swallows the second glass of whiskey and decides against a third; the liquor is making the burn worse not better.

Teresa's words shredded him like razor blades—of course they wouldn't have had that effect if they hadn't been true.

His callous remarks about Red John did get his wife and child killed. Plenty of people, therapists mostly, told him it wasn't his fault, and that he couldn't predict the actions of a mad man. The problem is that Patrick Jane's words have been inciting trouble his whole life. He can't seem to keep his mouth shut, to keep his biting, troublesome comments to himself.

He stares at his empty glass. There is lipstick on the rim that indicates it wasn't washed before he was served. He curls his lip in disgust.

He thinks he has a pathological urge to make people uncomfortable, to push the limits to the breaking point. He thinks he is fundamentally a cruel man.

Jane tosses some bills on the bar and leaves. Booze won't solve his problems tonight.

His wandering takes him to a motel, the kind he might have lived in a few weeks ago, before he decided to nest at Teresa's place.

The room is non-descript and more than a little sad. He strips naked and climbs between the thin sheets, listens to the muffled noise from the TV in the neighbor's room.

Even with Angela he was a liar and fraud. He conned good people out of their money by playing on their most intimate needs and fears. It was loathsome. Angela loved him through all of that.

Teresa is different. Without him realizing it, she's taken everything that disgusts him about himself and converted it into something good. His lies and manipulations put killers behind bars. He's one of the good guys now, he's reformed. Even without Red John the compulsion to do his job at the CBI, to _help_ people not use them, is so strong that he can't walk away from it.

Angela loved him for what he was.

Teresa made him a better man.

XXX

Fear buries itself in Teresa's mind like an animal hiding from winter. It's deep rooted and inescapable. She doesn't sleep that night, but instead lies in the silence and waits to hear Jane opening her door.

When he doesn't come back the fear starts to scratch its way down her spine, making her feel jittery and hyper alert. The garbage man banging trash cans outside makes her jump like a gunshot.

She wonders if he's gone for good now. Red John is no longer there to bind him to the CBI. He could be in Vegas or Monte Carlo or Macau. The thought of going another six months, let alone a lifetime, without hearing from him again is paralyzing.

She wants him beside her so much it's an actual physical pain.

She dresses for work, skips breakfast, and for once, coffee. Caffeine will only make her shakes worse.

Jane isn't at the office; she had hoped he'd be there ignoring his suspension with his usual irreverence. She waits for the team to arrive (Rigsby late because of Ben) and then summons them into her office.

Once Cho closes the door she says, "Jane's been suspended for a month because of his actions at Senator Collin's fundraiser."

"That's bullshit!" Van Pelt snaps. "He caught the killer." She crosses her arms over her chest, shifts her stance to show her defiance. Teresa remembers when she was still green and afraid, not the strong woman in front of her.

"And the senator felt insulted and is threatening to cut our funding," Teresa replies in her most authoritarian voice. "He has to pay the price for his actions."

Cho crosses his arms over his chest. "She's right. Jane crosses the line all the time and the brass likes it because it gets results. One politician gets his panties in a knot and now Jane is suspended? That's hypocritical."

Teresa thinks that's the most she's heard Cho say at one go in a year. "I don't like it either, but we have to deal with it. I told him yesterday." She waves her hand in a let it go gesture. "Let's get back to work."

She looks expectantly at the team, but no one moves.

Finally, Rigsby who looks sleep deprived and uncomfortable, says, "Is everything okay, Boss?"

"Well, I'm upset about Jane…" She falters. She reaches for her pen, for something to fiddle with.

Van Pelt blurts it out. "Are you and Jane living together?"

Teresa gasps.

"You come to work and leave in the same car, at the same time," Van Pelt continues. "And the…dynamic between you two has changed."

She swallows, wondering how she could have thought to fool the three best detectives she knows. "He's been staying with me since Red John was killed. He was struggling."

"That was a while ago," Rigsby says quietly.

"He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa says. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Van Pelt smirks, but her voice is gentle. "We're not judging you, Boss. We're just concerned that given the fact that you two are…co-habitating now, you make not take his suspension so well."

"We're happy for you," Rigsby says. "Tell Jane that okay?"

Teresa feels bewildered. "I will," she says lamely.

The team files out and she stares at the door after them.

She wonders what the team sees in them that they don't. She has been happier since Jane more or less moved in. She's sleeping better. She's thinking about family and security and all the little things she'd pushed aside years ago.

She imagines Jane at some poker table, working off his anger by fleecing the rich and cynical. She imagines him getting beat up for his trouble.

She lets her head fall into her hands and winds her fingers through her hair. The need to know he's okay is overwhelming, like gasping for air and finding none. Her cell taunts her, sitting silently on her blotter.

She picks up her phone, and texts Jane. _Don't run away on me again_.


	19. Chapter 19

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

**A/N: The last part of this chapter strays a little into M territory. I've kept it fairly vague, though. **

XVIII.

Jane spends the day at the beach, watching the waves and trying to find some solace. He feels ashamed that Teresa would need to prove her worth to a dirt-bag like Bertram because of him. Everyone knows Lisbon is a stellar cop. The thought that he tainted her professional reputation makes him faintly nauseated.

He's always hated his mouthy, cavalier attitude, but it's as much a part of him as his powers of observation. He seems unable to turn it off. Still, hurting Teresa that way is unacceptable.

When darkness comes and he can only hear the ocean, not see the water anymore, he wanders back to his car and makes the drive back to Sacramento. He feels weary, tired beyond words.

He doesn't realize he has a message on his phone until he gets back to his motel.

_Don't run away on me again_.

He stares at the words, an ache building in his chest. He knows that his six month hiatus hurt her, but he didn't expect her to be so traumatized by it that she would expect him to run at the first sign of trouble.

Of course, he hasn't given her any reason not to worry, he supposes. He's always been up front about the fact that the CBI was his ticket to Red John, nothing more. He never told Teresa how much she meant to him, how much the work meant to him. He knows she suspects, but it's not the same as him coming out and telling her that he's found a new purpose.

It breaks his heart that he wounded her so deeply, left her so afraid that he'd vanish again. He imagines her, her face creased with worry and compassion.

It's late now—early really. He lies down on his lonely bed. He'll call her in the morning and let her know they are alright. He closes his eyes. The pillow smells like cheap laundry detergent, not cinnamon and her shampoo. Restlessly he tosses his arm to the side. There is no warm, petite body there for it rest on.

"Screw it," he mutters miserably. He gets up and grabs his keys.

XXX

Teresa lies in bed, pretending to read a book. Her eyes keep straying to the cellphone on her bedside table, waiting for damned thing to chirp and let her know Jane has texted. It stares back at her silently. She sighs and turns a page, winces when she cuts her finger on the paper. She sucks on the little wound.

She hears the sound of a key in her lock; her front door opens. She feels her heart rise to her throat. Her breathing shortens as she hears Jane walk up the stairs. He appears in her bedroom door, rumpled and windblown. His vest and jacket are gone. The bottoms of his slacks look damp.

"I'd never run away from you, Teresa," he says without preamble.

She takes her finger out of her mouth and sets her book in her lap. "I won't wait again, Jane," she whispers. Tears prick at her eyes.

He sighs. "Oh, Teresa."

He kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed; she doesn't hesitate in wrapping her arms around his neck. His hair smells like saltwater.

He pulls her into his lap, nearly crushing her with his hug. She's wearing a thin pink tank top and pajama bottoms. His hands are hot through the material of her shirt. He presses his face to the crook of her neck and breathes deeply.

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble," he says against her skin.

"I'm sorry for what I said," she whispers.

"I shouldn't have been so blasé about the suspension. I never meant to have Bertram question your professional abilities," he replies, his lips moving over her neck with each word. "I can be such an ass."

"I wouldn't love you if you were perfectly behaved all the time," she replies on half laugh.

She feels him stiffen at her words, realizes what she just said.

They hold each other, neither daring to breathe. She squeezes her eyes closed. _Please don't go_, she begs silently.

He says softly, "I can't sleep without you."

She relaxes against him again, her fear of rejection abated. "I can't sleep without you either."

He pulls back and kisses her forehead. "Then let's go to bed."

She feels bereft when he leaves to go to the bathroom to change. She notices there's sand on her sheets now. She frowns and brushes it away.

He returns in the loaner sweatpants and no shirt again. She feels like she's getting used to seeing him this way. She flicks off the lamp with a twinge of regret. He slides into bed beside her and she rolls into him, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

She listens to him breath for a while, his hands roaming aimlessly over her back. His fingers trace her spine through the fabric of her tank top, counting each little vertebra. When they stray down to her buttocks she tenses.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I like touching you."

"It's not that," she whispers, embarrassed. She shifts against him uncomfortably. She's not wearing a bra; he has to feel her nipples harden against his chest.

She hears his breathing sharpen.

"Roll over," he says quietly.

Biting her lip she rolls onto her back. His hand slides down the front of her pajama bottoms, finds her with unerring confidence.

The first touch is shocking, thrilling. Her whole body grows taut with need.

His fingers are expert, elegant, exquisite. Her hips twitch. Her fingers twist the sheets.

She finds release on a sob, her frame shaking.

When she can breathe steadily again she rolls onto her side, kisses him deeply. He returns the kiss, but when she puts her hand on his stomach he grasps her wrist.

"Jane?" she asks.

"Not tonight," he says, his voice shaking a little. "Tonight I owe you."

She is confused, bewildered, but she lets him tuck his body around her. He holds her and eventually they both breathe steadily and quietly.

She picks at the edge of her pillowcase, wondering if he's afraid of the intimacy or if this was some sort of penance for him. He was clearly aroused, so she can't imagine it was a sacrifice on his part.

"Please, Teresa," he says. "Stop thinking so loud."

She sighs.

It's dawn when she falls asleep.


	20. Chapter 20

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Some reviewers have expressed concern about the content of this story shifting from sweet to sexual. I fully plan on exploring the sexual aspect of Jane and Lisbon's relationship, but I don't think that prevents it from being sweet in any way. I think any romance between them would be fraught with difficulty, and sex would be a part of that as they are both adults. That said, I'm adhering to the T rating and avoiding explicit description, but I won't close the bedroom door entirely.

I respect that this isn't everyone's cup of tea. If you aren't comfortable reading about them thinking about, discussing or having sex, you may want to leave off here. Moving forward it's going to play a larger role in this story.

XIX.

Jane wakes up shortly after dawn, and listens with dread for the plaintive yowling that comes from Teresa's alarm clock radio. When the country music doesn't start he remembers that it's Saturday.

Teresa is curled up in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, her leg thrown over his. Her hand rests on his chest, fingers flexing against his skin as she dreams. She looks younger in her sleep, untroubled by murder and all the ugliness of the world. Her lips are pink and a little swollen, her down swept lashes dark against the skin of her cheeks.

She is remarkable beautiful, and he spends a long time watching her, committing every feature to memory. His arm tucks her closer, his hand stroking her back, her hip. Un-sated need burns in his blood, and more than once he considers waking her with a few urgent kisses. He knows after last night that she'd welcome his advances.

The memory of touching her so intimately, of hearing her splinter apart beneath his fingers, is like a fever. The need, so animalistic, frightens him.

The mechanics of sex, the desire for it, were never lost on him after his wife's death. Bedding Lorelei had been disgustingly easy for him; she was beautiful and an expert, if somewhat unenthusiastic, lover. Still, their time together had been cold and devoid of any emotion.

He could give that to Teresa now, take that from her, some urgent, heated coupling they'd both enjoy. He knows he could manage that much. What he isn't sure of anymore is his capacity for intimacy. The tender moments they've shared so far, the cuddling, the late night confessions, their kisses, have been the closest thing to intimacy he's had in ten years.

He remembers being with Angela, the joy and the safety of sex based on love. He remembers how it fulfilled needs that weren't physical. Being touched, being _loved_ was such a golden, healing thing, and he had to put it out of his mind for a decade. He practiced being cold and unreachable behind his charming façade.

Last night she said she loves him, and he believes her. She would love him, damaged as he is, and she'd do it selflessly and completely.

He's loved Lisbon for a while now, but in a distant, almost courtly way. When Red John fell beneath a hail of bullets he thought maybe he would be free to love her more deeply, the way a man should.

Now he realizes that not all the monsters are dead; some are of his own creation. The place he closed off all those years ago feels unreachable to him. He could love Teresa, could commit to her, but he's still damaged and wounded beyond repair. He could play the part of a lover or husband, but he's not sure he could give himself to her completely. He wonders if it's the fear of loving completely and then losing her again, or if he's simply emotionally atrophied. If he makes love to her, will it be a lie?

"Don't think so hard," she mumbles sleepily.

He looks at her, realizes she's been watching him for a few minutes. Her hair is tangled and adorable. She props herself up on an elbow, looks at him intently.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice filled with concern.

He brushes the hair from her face. "Nothing."

She blushes a little. "Is this about last night? You didn't have to…"

He grins. "You think that was a hardship for me?"

She shrugs, looking a little put out. "Well, you didn't seem to be interested in taking things any farther."

He realizes she feels hurt, embarrassed.

He cups the back of her head and pulls her down for a smoldering kiss, the kind that makes him want to the throw caution to the wind and consummate things right there.

When he pulls back, he says softly. "I haven't been intimate with a woman in over ten years, Teresa. To be honest, I'm not sure I can."

A dark eyebrow arches. "The equipment seems to be working, Jane."

He strokes his thumb along her neck. "Physically I'm fine," he says with exasperation. "I just haven't…loved anyone. I let myself turn cold and hard and cruel, or maybe I always was."

She shakes her head in frustration. "You're a good man Patrick Jane. Please believe that."

He feels his chest tighten. "Say that again."

"You're a good man," she repeats.

"No, the other part. Say my name again."

"Patrick," she says softly. "Should I start…should I start calling you Patrick?"

The way his name rolls off her tongue makes the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"I think it's a start," he whispers. "I like it when you call me that."

She bites her lower lip, traces her fingers along his chest. "Why don't we start slow?" she asks. "And I won't pressure you into anything."

"I feel like a girl on prom night," he mumbles irritably. "Teresa, if you want sex, I'll give you that…but you deserve more."

"You do give me more, Jane—Patrick," she says quickly. "Remember that pony?"

He rolls his eyes. "I was being a showman. I had to out-do everyone."

"I didn't have a lot of birthdays as a kid," she says softly. "After my mom died, I made sure the boys always had something special on their birthday—presents, a cake. They were too young to remember mine, though, and my dad was too drunk, so I went years without anything."

He swallows thickly. Suddenly he wants to give her giant cakes done up in pink icing, presents piled to the sky. He wants to give her all her little girl dreams and wishes.

"Getting that pony, it was like one of my wishes came true—just about twenty five years too late," she says with a laugh. "It made me feel special, and I knew you'd never forget about me."

"How could I forget?" he asks. He draws her against him, holds her tightly. His childhood was nothing to brag about, but when she talks about hers, his heart breaks a little.

"Patrick, you're crushing me," she mutters from his chest.

He lets her up, but kisses her before she can roll away. It's a soft kiss, the kind reserved for bittersweet moments. It still makes him tingle down to his toes.

"What's on the agenda today?" he asks.

"Shopping, laundry." She shrugs. "You don't have to stay."

He grasps her hand. "Where else would I go?"


	21. Chapter 21

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."'

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It's good to know you guys like where this is going. Some domestic lovey-times below then on to Jane shenanigans in the next chapter. Happy weekend!

XX.

Jane showers while Teresa pours herself a giant mug of coffee, getting her morning caffeine jolt in before she gets a withdrawal headache. Dried and dressed, in slacks and shirtsleeves (it is the weekend after all), he says "I have some suits to take to the dry cleaner. Do you need me to drop anything off for you?"

"Sure," she says over the rim of her mug. He follows her to the bedroom where a stack of her blazers and slacks are folded neatly on an embroidered footstool. He makes a mental note that this is where she keeps her unwashables.

"I'm going to take a hot bath," she says as he scoops up her clothing. He watches her as she picks up her robe and the book she was pretending to read the previous night. Her muscles are clearly stiff and there are dark smudges under her eyes.

Teresa needs to soak, he realizes. She needs to unwind because of the stress he's causing her at work.

Guilt kicks him in the gut. It seems he can't touch anything pretty without smudging it a little.

After she retreats to the bathroom he retrieves his dirty suits from her spare closet.

He drops their things off at the dry cleaner, putting it all under his name the way he would if they were a married couple. It makes him pause as he takes the little green slip with "Jane" printed on it.

He stops at department store. He shops for things he's never cared about before—soft fleece pajama pants, tee-shirts, a robe. These little comforts that are a part of most people's daily routines, but that he excised from his life when Red John took his family. He stops at a boutique soap and skin care shop and buys Teresa lavender bath salts and lotions. On a whim he gets her an eyemask too, to remove the shadows he saw there that morning.

He gets them Danishes and the morning paper before returning home.

Teresa eyes him suspiciously as he hauls in his purchases.

"Moving in are we?" she asks.

"I thought that was obvious," he replies cavalierly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I couldn't stand those borrowed sweatpants anymore. I suggest you burn them."

"My next boyfriend might want to use them," she remarks slyly, reaching in the bakery bag and finding a Danish. She picks at the flakey pastry and smirks.

"I still plan to ruin you for all other men," he says in a low, hot voice. "It's just a longer plan than I'd originally anticipated."

She turns bright red and he grins in satisfaction. He hands her the gift bag from the boutique and kisses her again.

"I'm making tea," he announces as he heads for the kitchen.

He can hear the rustle of tissue paper as she unwraps her gift. He doesn't need to watch her to know she has the eager look of a little girl at Christmas. He pours water in the kettle and puts it on the burner to boil.

"Jane," she gasps, coming to stand in the doorway. "This is expensive stuff. You didn't have to do this."

"Please call me Patrick?" he asks with exasperation.

"Patrick," she repeats softly. "And thank you."

The delight in her voice warms him to his toes. He thinks he'll have to buy her presents more often.

They sip their tea and coffee, eat their pastries, and share the paper. When her hand slips across the table to hold his, he feels a wound deep inside of him scarring over.

XXX

There is something truly unnerving about handling Jane's underwear, Teresa thinks. Maybe it's because he's not Jane, he's Patrick now, and being with Patrick is still new.

She folds a pair of gray boxer briefs in half and sets them in the white plastic laundry basket. Jane is helping her with the laundry, and by helping she means commenting on her unmentionables.

"Really, Teresa?" He holds up a functional white sports bra.

"Victoria's Secret is just fine until your running after a suspect and your boob pops out," she remarks dryly.

He drops the bra in the basket. "Make Rigsby do the running. You're the boss." He sighs. "Besides I was thinking La Perla. You'd look lovely in some midnight blue lace."

She blushes. "Hush."

"Woman, you were the one trying to get in pants earlier," he comments. He fishes around in the dryer and pulls out a pair of bright pink lace boyshorts. "Here we go," he announces. He holds the underthings up and studies them. "Uh oh. I think I shrunk them."

She raises an eyebrow. "No you didn't."

His face looks strained. "Dear God," he says hoarsely.

She snatches them from him and tosses them in the basket. "Stop searching through the laundry for my underwear and actually help here. We need to get to the grocery store."

He sighs but helps her fold. He still seems a bit thrown off by her panties.

He carries the laundry from the community laundry room back to her place and sets it on the bed.

They agree to take her car to the store since it has more space for groceries in the trunk. Teresa gets a cart and starts checking things off her list with her usual efficiency. It's a few minutes before she realizes she's lost Jane.

When he reappears he's got an arm full of organic greens, cheeses, and a variety of other expensive looking items. He drops them in the cart.

"What's that?" she asks.

He looks at her in exasperation. "There's this whole section here called 'Produce' where people who don't wish to have a vitamin deficiency sometimes shop."

"I don't have a vitamin deficiency," she replies tartly.

He looks into the cart. "All you've picked up is dish soap, Gatorade, a pound of coffee and some protein bars. My B12 is dropping just looking at this."

She rolls her eyes. He continues to add things to their cart as they shop until it's nearly heaping with groceries. As they get in line to pay she tosses a celebrity gossip magazine on top.

Jane opens his mouth.

"Don't you dare," she warns.

They fight briefly over who is going to pay until she pinches him solidly in the ribs. She swipes her debit card as he rubs the bruise. The total bill makes her blanch a little; Jane has expensive tastes.

As the bagger loads their cart up she says, "Why don't you rent us a movie from the Red Box."

"The what?" he asks.

She points to the red kiosk. "The Red Box."

"You can rent movies from that vending machine?" he asks.

She shakes her head in wonder. Sometimes the man is so stuck in the past it's a joke. She shows him how to select a movie and pay, and they choose a couple of Oscar nominated films neither of them have had time to see.

On the ride home he flips through her gossip magazine. "Who are these people?" he asks.

"A rapper and a fashion model."

"And it matters that they're having sex because?"

She shrugs.

He turns a page. "What in God's name is a Honey Boo Boo?"

She grins. Maybe being out of touch isn't so bad. She's not even going to try and explain that one.

XXX

They get home and unpack, then Jane starts chopping up hearts of romaine and grating parmesan cheese.

"Go put a movie in," he tells her. "We'll eat in the living room."

He makes them Caesar salads and pours each of them a glass of wine. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, crunching and watching the movie in silence.

Much later she curls into his side, a blanket tucked around them both. He rests his cheek on the top of her head. The second movie seems to drag, but she doesn't want to move, doesn't want this Saturday to end.

She loves him, she realizes, and she wants him at home, with her, always.


	22. Chapter 22

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: We're straying a wee-bit into M territory here, folks.

XXI.

Teresa wakes up Sunday morning with Jane's head pillowed on her chest. His arm is wrapped around her tightly, holding her against him as if he's afraid she'll run away.

She strokes his gold curls, relishes the weight of him on top her. She feels him smile against her skin.

"Teresa," he murmurs languidly.

She loves the way he says her name. _Ter-re-zzzah_. It sounds exotic and a little wicked. She feels the trill of his z's all the way to her toes.

He nuzzles her between her breasts, kisses the softness there.

"Jane," she whispers.

He makes a soft growling sound.

"Patrick," she amends.

He kisses her again and she can feel his growing arousal against her thigh. She rubs her leg against him and he groans.

"Unless you want to finish this," she whispers, "we need to stop."

He sighs and rolls onto his back. "Honestly, Teresa, I don't know why this is so hard—" He catches himself. "So _difficult_ for me."

It's like being with her will be the final threshold he needs to cross in order to be whole again. It's the last line in the sand.

Ever understanding and compassionate, Teresa gets out of bed and slips into her robe. "Do you want eggs?" she asks, as if nothing has transpired between them.

He runs his fingers through his hair. "That would be great."

XXX

That morning they seem to orbit each other in her small apartment. He does the dishes while she watches TV. He watches TV while she jogs. They pass each other in the bathroom door, he on his way out of the shower, she on her way in.

It feels awkward and hopeless, this dance around intimacy.

He can see the hurt in her eyes, and it pains him. Even after a decade, the idea of making love to Teresa feels like a betrayal of Angela. It seems his wife was somehow canonized into sainthood through the violent senselessness of her death, and he, a mere mortal, can never live up to the idea of her.

Teresa is as a good a woman as he'll ever find, as full of love and strength as his wife had once been. She's been patient in their ten year courtship, and now when the spectre of Red John is gone, he finds himself unable to reach out for her finally, the way he truly wants to.

It's as if she's the Lady in the Lake; he can complete a quest in her name, but never cross the water to reach her.

He lies on her couch, petulant and moody. He knows he's poor company, but he's unwilling to leave. He likes it too much here.

From across the living room Teresa laughs, full throated and wicked.

He raises his head.

She's been reading a book. Now she turns a page and laughs again. She actually snorts.

"What is that?" he asks.

She waves the book in his general direction. "Laurie Notaro. It's a collection of essays. I can't read mysteries or thrillers after what we do every day. I read humorous essay collections, so I don't forget to laugh."

He's noticed the names on her bookshelf, Sedaris, Ephron, Notaro. He never put it in context, which for him, is shameful. He wanders over to the bookshelf and takes a paperback down. He returns to the couch, hoping for something to brighten his mood.

From across the room Teresa says, "Cheer up, Jane. Life's too short to take yourself so seriously."

XXX

Monday morning comes too quickly. Jane makes Teresa breakfast and coffee, kisses her at the door like a dutiful haus frau.

The entire way to work she worries, nibbling her lip. She kept her cool during the weekend, kept things light between them. Now she lets go, lets her anxiety show.

She wonders if she could live in a sexless relationship if that's what Jane needs. She thinks she could, for him, but it would be an epic task. All weekend she ached to touch him, to stroke him intimately or cradle him between her legs. She's always been comfortable in her sexuality, and Jane is far too attractive for her to ignore.

The previous night she had twitched beneath damp sheets, tempted to ask him to touch her again, to help her find some release. In the end she was too stubborn to do it.

She wonders if he's facing some sort of mental impotence keeping him from completing the act they're both obvious thinking about. Physically he's more than able, but whenever things get too hot she can see the fear in his eyes.

She sighs and parks her car in the CBI lot. She's promised him she'll take things slow, but that doesn't mean she has to hold back completely, does it?

The office feels strange without him there. She can tell the team misses him too. Van Pelt and Rigsby ask about him; Cho doesn't but she can tell he wants to.

Around lunch she texts Jane: _What are you doing?_

A moment later her phone chirps: _Working on a project_.

Her stomach clenches. A Jane project sounds dangerous. Possibly illegal. She texts him several urgent question marks.

Her phone chirps again: _Relax woman, you'll see when you get home_.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, warding off the headache building there.

After another moment she hears her text alert again. She opens her message: _Hey, guess what I found in your bedside drawer?_

She texts back_: You're a dead man._

XXX

When she opens her apartment door after work she is buffeted by the unmistakable scent of fresh paint.

_Oh, God_, she thinks. _What has he done now?_

She kicks her shoes off at the door, hangs her jacket on the peg. "Jane?" she calls.

He doesn't answer.

"Patrick?" she tries.

"In here!" His voice is coming from her spare bathroom.

Jane is crouched in the tiny room, applying what appears to be a final coat of white paint to the baseboard. She gasps.

The room has been transformed from the rubber-ducky bathroom she never used, to the sort of relaxing designer room she'd expect to see in a spa. The tacky children's wallpaper has been replaced by a pattern of soft blue flowers, neutral and cool. The fixtures have been updated and thick, puffy white towels hang from hooks on the wall. Candles line the vanity and the back of the toilet. On the tub is a wooden shelf that holds her new bath salts and her book.

She feels a prickling behind her eyes. "You did this for me?"

"It needed updating," he replies nonchalantly.

"Patrick." She turns to him and wraps her arms around his neck. He angles the paintbrush away from them and hugs her closer. He smells like paint and a little like sweat. She kisses his neck.

"Why don't you take a bath," he offers. He sits down on the edge of the tub, puts the stopper in, and begins running the water.

She pauses to think only for a second before acting. She said slow, and she won't push him, but she won't hold still forever.

She tugs her shirt over her head, drops it to the floor. She unzips her jeans.

"Teresa," he says hoarsely, his eyes widening.

"What?" she asks, shimmying out of her pants and toeing off her socks. "I'm taking a bath."

He doesn't move a muscle, holds almost preternaturally still. She sees him draw in a breath when she unhooks her bra and lets it fall to the floor.

"Teresa," he says again, his voice urgent now, almost pained. It's like a prayer.

She slips out of her panties, now completely nude. "It's my house, I can walk around naked if I want to," she says serenely. She brushes past him, his dark, hooded gaze following her like a predator, and steps into the water. "Do you want to take a bath with me?" she asks softly.

He squeezes his eyes closed and she steadies herself for disappointment.

He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on top of her clothes.


	23. Chapter 23

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

**VERY IMPORTANT A/N: So this is short chapter and here's why. I struggled with how to write chapter twenty-two while keeping the story rated T, but I didn't want to alienate any of my truly awesome readers who have stuck with me thus far. I had to compromise and write two versions of the same chapter.**

**This is the edited T version. It's shorter and sweeter. We close the bedroom door and leave a lot to the imagination. **

**If you want the M version, that's posted as a separate story called The Devil You Know Interlude. You won't miss anything pertinent to the story by not reading the M version. The Interlude is defiantly graphic, and date I say, the hottest thing I've written so far (I think). If you want the sexytimes, go there.**

**Read either version, and please review. You guys are great and you keep me writing!**

XXII.

Jane's mouth goes dry at the first sight of soft white skin. Contrary to what others may believe he has always looked at Teresa as a woman, not just a cop or his boss or his friend. He's never been blind to her strength, wrapped in ermine-soft femininity, or her beauty. She is a woman of contrasts: ferocity balanced by pixie-like delicacy.

Seeing her bare though, completely stripped down, makes him realize that he's never truly seen Teresa-the-woman, not really. It's not just an "oh, so that's what you look like naked" moment either. Tendrils of long brown hair, softly curled, fall over her shoulders to skim her breasts. She is ethereal, elfin…He is breathless.

It is as though he was a tightly-knotted bow and someone has just tugged on the end of the ribbon. He has come undone.

His fingers tremble as he undoes the buttons of his shirt, tosses the garment on top hers. He stands and undoes his pants clumsily, his eyes never leaving her body, her face. She has a knowing little smile, wicked and joyful. Her cheeks are pink.

She studies his nakedness with the same frank eye that he used to study her. Her cheeks flush a deeper blush. She reaches out for him, holds her hand to him.

He takes it and steps into the tub with her, the water scalding his feet.

He sits down, a little awkwardly. Fortunately Teresa's apartment has come equipped with a surprisingly large bathtub, or this wouldn't work.

She bends and switches off the faucet, her long hair brushing the surface of the water. She turns around and carefully settles down into his lap.

She leans back against his chest with a sigh, her head resting the cradle of his neck. Her legs stretch out along his and she rubs one foot against his shin. Her legs are smooth and pale, a counterpoint to the dusting of blond hair that cover his. He is fascinated by the sweet little arch of her foot.

Her fingers entwine with his, their hands resting on the edge of the tub.

She hums in contentment, letting her head loll.

He breathes in the scent of her hair, and for a moment he struggles with what to do. His body is screaming for sex, aching for it, but his mind is firing off on all cylinders, presenting him with every reason intimacy is a bad idea.

He is damaged. He is a liar, a fraud, a vainglorious cheat. He will taint her. She will hurt him and he can't suffer another blow in his life. He will disappoint her. She will leave. She will die. It's not real. It can't be real. It's too good to be real.

He squeezes his eyes closed and breathes in the humid air.

For a moment, focused only on the feel of her against him, he is the old Jane again, the one before Angela, the lothario. What would Old Jane do, presented with such a wonderful circumstance? Old Jane who had not been tampered with by love? He would seduce her of course, thoroughly.

Teresa deserves to be properly seduced, he thinks. She sighs, her foot sliding along the inside of his leg.

She arches her neck up to look at him with dark eyes. "Mmm. Patrick," she says.

He is lost.

XXX

Jane is warm against her body, slumberous. Her bedroom is filled with the sound of quiet, panting breaths.

"Are you okay?" she whispers.

She feels him shudder against her and for a horrible moment she thinks he's sobbing. He rolls off of her, his laughter filling the room. He pulls her onto his chest, then tugs the bed sheets over them.

"Am I okay?" he asks, grinning crookedly. "I'm going to need twenty minutes, and then we're doing that again."

Full of joy, she kisses him.


	24. Chapter 24

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Please review?

XXIV.

Teresa wakes up to the rumbling of her stomach. Her cheek is pressed to Jane's chest and she can feel his deep, even breathing beneath her. His arm is wrapped around her waist, a pleasant, heavy weight.

They fell asleep after the third time they made love, each bout of passion growing progressively more tender and intense. The last time Jane had whispered words of love to her while softly raining kisses on her jaw, her eyelids, her cheeks. It was somewhere between somnolent and passionate, a lazy sort of ecstasy.

The world outside her window is dark and she realizes it must be late. She hasn't eaten dinner yet.

Carefully she slides out from under Jane's arm, trying not to wake him. She hears him sigh and rolls over, pinning her in place.

"Jane," she laughs. "I'm starving."

A low growl rumbles from his throat.

"Patrick," she sighs, rolling her eyes.

He opens his eyes and looks at her. He's rumpled and sexy, and from the grin on his face, all too pleased with himself.

"You look beautiful," he whispers.

She was hoping he might say 'I love you,' but she doesn't need the words to know they're true.

"You must be hungry too," she says, pressing a kiss to his lips. "C'mon, I have ice cream in the freezer."

He sighs unhappily when she rolls out from under him and snatches up a tee-shirt. He props himself up on an elbow and watches her dress. "Ice cream for dinner? Scandalous," he says dryly.

She checks her clock. "It's not dinner, it's a midnight snack," she says brightly.

He follows her to the kitchen, not bothering to dress. Jane wandering around her apartment naked makes her stomach flip-flop, both from desire and from the intimacy of seeing him that way. She pulls two cartons of ice cream from her freezer and grabs spoons from the drawer.

"Phish Food or Chunky Monkey?" she asks, holding up both cartons.

"Both," he says, snatching the Chunky Monkey from her.

They take their food to the living room. Jane tosses a blanket and her pillows onto the floor in front of the couch and settles down. She sits next to him, leans into the warmth of his body. He flips on the TV to a late night talk show and digs into the ice cream.

"I hate that guy," he says, conversationally.

"Who?" she asks around her spoon. "The actor?"

"The host. The red-headed guy." He takes another bite of ice cream.

Teresa watches him out of the corner of her eye. He's intent on the television, the blue glow from the screen casting shadows on his face. She doesn't know why, but her instincts tell her that something is off, that he is distant.

It's hard to tell with him since he can be flattering, charming and observant even when he's internalizing. She crunches a chocolate fish.

"Something wrong?" she asks quietly.

"Hmm?" He sucks on his spoon.

"You seem…off." She tilts her head. "Was this…was this a mistake?" she asks gently.

His brow furrows but his lips quirk in exasperation. She can practically hear him think _Silly, Teresa, always worrying_.

"It didn't feel like a mistake to me," he says blithely. "From what I could tell, you were certainly enjoying yourself." He grins wickedly. "Five? Or was my count off? I was distracted at the time."

She blushes. "Hush. I just mean, I want you to be happy." _With me_ is unspoken.

He kisses her forehead. His lips are cold from the ice cream. "I am happy, Teresa."

She leans into his touch. So why, she wonders, does it feel like she's sitting with Jane, not Patrick?

XXX

Morning comes too early, the bright light between her blinds and the sound of the alarm chasing away the magic of the night before.

Teresa wakes up with Jane wrapped around her, spooning her. He kisses her neck, slides his hand up her tee-shirt.

"Aren't you tired?" she asks with a grin.

He rolls her onto her back. "_I_ can go back to sleep," he points out. Then he kisses her.

XXX

She's late to work. Van Pelt, Rigsby and Cho glance up curiously at her when she strides in, but only Grace quirks a knowing grin.

The office feels strange without Jane on his familiar leather couch.

She spends the morning in a happy daze, high on love and endorphins. She has to resist the urge to text him every hour. It's been years since she's felt like this, giddy, happy… but beneath that runs an undercurrent of doubt.

Jane's transition from fear to rakish-confidence came too fast. He's almost as adept at lying to himself as he is to others. She needs to know this is real, and it's impossible to sort truth from games from that man.

She clutches her phone. Jane wouldn't play with her heart, not after all these years. She knows he loves her in some way, even if he might not be in love with her.

Her text alert pings. She looks at the screen.

Jane has written, _Going out of town for the day. Be back tonight._

She bites her lips, but types back, _Okay_.

She is relieved when Cho comes in to tell her they've caught a murder.


	25. Chapter 25

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: We're getting near the end here. I'm starting to lose steam on this one, and if I am, then I'm guessing you guys are too LOL. Hang in there for a few more chapters…

XXV.

Jane wakes up hours after Teresa leaves for work, a pleasant weariness in his limbs. He hasn't felt so deliciously depleted since his honeymoon, a lifetime ago.

He knew the chemistry between them promised spectacular sex, what he wasn't expecting was the emotion their little marathon session of love-making brought.

He had troubled him while they sat, eating their ice cream. He felt clean and new after being with her, baptized almost, and he as far from clean and new as it was possible to get. Even with Angela he was fraud to the outside world, whatever man he might be at home. He has spent years carrying the burden of guilt on his back; it's too easy that one night with Teresa would make that fade away into memory.

He rubs at the scar on his forearm, where Red John slashed at him. It's turning white now.

Staring at the ghostly line he realizes that in some ways he's changed, and in some he's exactly the same. He gets out of bed. He has things to do.

XXX

Teresa fights the urge to gag as she looks into the trunk of the car. Years of police work have inured her to even the most disgusting sights, but the sight of the body, burnt to a crisp and curled up in the fetal position, pushes her limits.

Her mind strays to the most inappropriate of places. She thinks of those rotisserie chickens they sell at the grocery store, their skin a crinkled black-brown. Bile rises in her throat and she swallows thickly to keep from vomiting.

Rigsby has a handkerchief pressed to his nose as he leans over the trunk. "Can't tell if it's male or female," he remarks. "The ME should be able to determine the sex."

He backs away from the body and turns to her, breathing in clean air. "The Sac FD got an anonymous tip about a car fire. They showed up, put it out and found this is the trunk. Police have already run the VIN. Car was reported stolen a few years ago."

Teresa looks around the empty parking lot in Sacramento's industrial district. "No leads on the owner, it's going to be hard to identify the body." She sighs in frustration. She can already feel that this will turn into a cold case, and Bertram's aspersions will be proven true.

"Maybe not," Grace says, crouching over a clump of grass that's sprouting out of the cracked asphalt. Something flutters in the breeze.

Teresa crouches down and waves a tech over. The man plucks the scrap from the grass with a forceps and drops it into a plastic baggie. She takes the bag and studies it. "Looks like one of those parking permit stickers you put on your windshield," she comments, looking at the half melted plastic. "Van Pelt, see if the original owner had one of these. If not, we may have our lead."

XXX

Black and red. Black and red. Black and red.

Jane's fingers idly riffle the cards in his hand. A stack of brightly colored chips sits in front of him, much larger than when he arrived.

The waitress appears at his elbow with a drink. At least it appears to be a drink; he slipped her a hundred dollar bill to bring him club soda with lime every time he ordered a gin and tonic. She's pretty in a too-done-up way, thick brown hair and big eyes. For a moment his mind strays back to Lorelei in her low-cut red jacket.

"Thanks," he says, sips the drink.

Across the green velvet the other players watch him like birds of prey, their eyes beady and wary. He's losing just enough to keep them from ousting him, but just barely.

Chips clatter when he tosses them into the center of the table.

The room is windowless and bright and he's losing track of time. He wonders if Teresa is worried about him. He hopes not.

He still has more games to play if he's going to be moved to the big table, the one he wants. He eyes the whale across the room, the man he's going to play.

He sips his drink again. He has so much to lose now that he actually feels a twinge of anxiety. He lets it show, lets the other players think they have him.

Then he wins. Again.

XXX

Teresa's eyes are scratchy and dry from being awake too long. The building is dark, but the bullpen is brightly lit and her team is hard at work.

The clatter of Van Pelt's nails on her keyboard is starting to drive her a little mad.

"All the state park stickers are the same," Van Pelt says, "and most of the numbers melted off, but I'm checking with all the ranger's offices to see if anyone recognizes the car. I'll start closest to Sacramento and work out."

"Good idea," she replies, knowing how slim a lead it is.

Cho hangs up the phone. "The body has to go to a forensic anthropologist to determine gender, race, age—everything," he says.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, knowing there's more coming. "And?"

"And the wait is two months at this point," he replies.

A curse word dies on her tongue.

"The ME said that it looks like the victim was alive when he or she burned though," he adds.

She feels sick as she remembers all that charred flesh. She hopes whoever it was died quickly of smoke inhalation. "Alright, so this is probably very personal, not someone looking to cover up an accidental homicide or death. This is torture."

She looks at the brown leather couch, a sport worn down in the cushions where Jane usually sits.

Patrick, she amends mentally.

"We wish he was here too," Rigsby says.

She shakes her head. "We can do this without him." _We have to_.

She retreats to her office and digs her bottle of aspirin from her drawer. She dry swallows two pills. Her cellphone sits silently on her desk. Jane hasn't called or texted since that morning. She picks up her phone and dials him for the first time that day, and dismay settles into her belly when it goes to voicemail.

"It's me," she says a little lamely, wondering why everyone sounds stupid on voicemail. "I'll be here late. I'm sorry. I, uh, miss you, Patrick." She clicks the end button. She almost said, I love you, Patrick.

It's frightening how easy those words feel.

She hangs up and settles back into her chair. Maybe Bertram was right, she thinks. Maybe she is lost without him, in more ways than one.


	26. Chapter 26

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: So I fixed the whole "alive when she died" part in the last chapter. Face-palm.

I'm super tired right now so hopefully this is coherent—and enjoyable

XXVI.

Teresa wakes up with a splitting pain in her head and the smell of Jane in her nostrils. For a moment she thinks she is at home, in bed with him, but then the sounds of the CBI reach her ears and she groans. She fell asleep on her white sofa, the one Jane liked to nap on, sometime during the night. She'd been going over her notes on the case, and her notepad is tucked uncomfortably beneath her.

She pushes herself up onto her elbows and checks her watch; seven a.m. She has time to dash home for a quick shower and change of clothes before the team arrives.

Halfway to her car she realizes that she may have worried Jane. Coming home late—or not at all—was never a concern before. There was no one to wait up, to worry. Guilt kicks her in the stomach as she wonders if Jane spent the night wondering where she was.

She turns on her phone. No missed calls. No text messages. She rings Jane and gets voicemail.

He could be asleep, she reasons, or in the shower.

Maybe he called Van Pelt, she thinks, as she strides from the elevator into the nearly empty parking garage. Grace would certainly tell him that she was working late, and Jane may have said not to bother her.

She frowns, fumbling in her haste to unlock the car door. Since when has Jane ever worried about pestering anyone?

She speeds home, the morning rush hour just starting up. She debates turning on her police lights, but decides against it.

Jane's car is not parked in front of her building. Still she holds out hope as she unlocks the door and dashes inside. "Patrick?" she calls, hoping that he's sound asleep and that she just woke him up.

She peeks in the empty bedroom. "Jane?"

The bed is made. The apartment feels hollow and empty in a way it never did before.

She checks her spare closet, where he hangs the suits he thinks she doesn't know about. She counts the same number of suits that were there the day before. Clearly he didn't pack his clothes for a trip.

She stands in the hallway and bites her lip, fights off tears. Did he flee again? He broke her heart once, disappearing like that, but they weren't lovers then. Red John was still the third person in their yet-unspoken relationship.

Surely Jane wouldn't run off on her now, not after the sweetness they shared just a day ago.

She texts him. _Where are you?_

She leaves the phone in the kitchen while she showers. If it's within earshot she'll panic every second she doesn't hear it ring. This was she can lie to herself—his message is waiting for her as soon as she is done cleaning up.

She does her hair and slaps some makeup on in a feeble attempt to cover the bags under her eyes. She brushes her teeth. When she is dressed again she enters the kitchen. She approaches the phone on her counter cautiously, as if it were a venomous snake.

The little green light blinks.

Her fingers are trembling as she accesses her messages.

_In the middle of something. Sorry. Will call soon. _

It's something, she thinks. At least he's not gone.

She sends back, _Be safe and come home_.

XXX

"No mobile devices, sir," the dealer says and reaches for his phone.

He hands it to her reluctantly.

Jane has reached the point where exhaustion is edging on delirium. Or maybe it's just the tantalizing thought of his prize so close at hand.

The whale sits across the table from him. He's a large man, obese, with a ruby ring nearly bisecting his swollen finger. The red gem glints from its nest of puffy skin. Jane thinks he must have put it on at least a decade ago and never taken it off. He's probably gained a hundred pounds since then.

The man's lower lip is slightly protuberant and liver colored. It makes him look sullen, pouty. His eyes belie that image, however; they as dark and empty as a shark's. He has no capacity for pity—for himself or others. He clearly intends to take Jane for all he's worth—which right now is quite a bit.

The stacks of chips have been replaced by brightly colored plastic cards, each worth thousands—in some cases hundreds of thousands.

Jane feels scruffy and unwashed and tired. He's forgotten what it's like to need sleep. Being with Teresa has reintroduced him to the need for solace and rest. He pushes through it, giving off an air of well-rested calm.

The whale looks at his cards, his face unreadable. Aside from the dealer, there are two other women in the private room, both of whom he suspects are prostitutes. One is wearing a heavy floral perfume that makes his eyed sting.

He blinks, but doesn't falter.

XXX

Van Pelt is waiting for her when Teresa gets back to the office. The junior agent is clearly excited.

"We found the owner of the car," Van Pelt says. "A park ranger remembered the car from the photos we sent. He had to go to campsite to break up a loud domestic disturbance that was bothering other campers. He filled out an official report—thank God he was a detailed man." She waves a sheaf of papers.

"And?" Teresa prompts.

Van Pelt grins. "His name is Jeremy Tate, and his girlfriend went missing three days ago."

Teresa sets her coffee on her desk and clips her weapon to her belt. "Grab Cho and Rigsby. Let's go."

She is optimistic on the ride to Tate's apartment. Even more so when she reads that Tate didn't report his girlfriend missing, her employer did.

"Long history of domestic disturbances," she says, flipping through the file Van Pelt prepared. "Police suspected abuse but the girlfriend wouldn't press charges."

Rigsby shakes his head in disgust as he pulls the SUV up in front of the apartment. It is a second story unit, part of an old house converted into separate apartments. The grass is brown and dead and garbage is piled up on the curb.

"Two entrances," Cho notes, pointing to the front door and a set of stairs going up the back of the house.

"You and Van Pelt go up front," she says. "I'll take the back. Rigsby stay down here in case he runs."

She climbs the stairs, weapon drawn. She crouches by the door in case Tate tries to flee.

It all happens remarkably fast.

She hears Cho pounding on the front door. There is a pause, then the backdoor bursts open, Tate running out. She draws on him, yells "freeze!"

He moves right in front of the gun, actually brushing the barrel. Before she can squeeze the trigger, he's knocked her arm up and away. She throws her elbow into him, hears him grunt in pain. She hears Rigsby yell.

Then he shoves her, hard, and she feels her heel slip off that first step.

The world tips end over end. Her head and shoulder hit the stairs with a sickening sound. For a moment she is confused, scratching her fingers as she struggles for purchase. Then she hits the concrete, feels it scrape the skin on her forehead. The impact jars her, pain explodes behind her eyes.

She hears someone yell "Boss!"

Then it is dark.


	27. Chapter 27

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XXVII.

Jane's shoes squeak on the linoleum of the hospital floor. His heartbeat is erratic; he can feel it samba in his chest, panicked and beyond any bio-feedback technique's control. The smell of antiseptic and bleach assaults his nose.

He sees Rigsby, waiting by the elevators, just as he promised he would be. He looks rumpled and tired, and his arms are crossed over his chest.

"She's going to be okay," he says, before Jane can ask. Jane can sense the other man's annoyance, or perhaps disappointment, with him. "She's already had a CT scan of her brain and there was no bleeding or swelling. It's just a concussion. Her right arm is broken though," Rigsby continues.

Jane lets out a breath of relief. When he saw Grace's id flash on his phone he knew there was trouble. When she told him Teresa had been injured, he'd chartered a plane from Vegas rather than make the nine hour drive home.

"Where is she?" he asks.

"Room 901," Rigsby replies. "She wants to see you." His tone of voice implies that he doesn't agree with her.

As the elevator takes them up to the ninth floor Jane says, "I'm going to do right by her, Wayne."

Rigsby looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "This is the second time you've vanished on her."

Jane's fingers brush the envelope in his jacket pocket. "Things have changed."

Rigsby snorts but doesn't comment.

When he reaches Teresa's room his throat goes tight. She's tiny in her hospital bed, dwarfed by the monitors and IV stands around her. She has a large bandage taped to her forehead and her right arm is in a cast. It took him so long to arrive that they already set the bone and wrapped her up.

Her face is pale, marred by bruises and scrapes. The fingers of her left hand look swollen and bloody, the nails ripped where she tried to catch herself. His eyes prickle.

"I feel better than I look," she assures him, ever the one to reach out and comfort.

Cho and Grace are standing sentinel by the door. He can feel the anger in Grace's stare, perhaps not directly at him, but some of it is bleeding his way.

He walks to Teresa and without hesitation bends down and kisses her fully on the lips. It's a gentle kiss, full of apology, but it is far from chaste.

He hears Rigsby groan, looks over to see the agent opening his wallet and handing a twenty to Cho.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I should have been there."

"You wouldn't have stopped me from falling," she points out. Her words are slurred. He looks at the IV and wonders what they've been giving her.

"But I would have been there," he says flatly. He looks at the other agents. "Where is Tate?"

A doctor, television handsome, walks in the room. "He's in the ER getting stitched up," the man answers for them. He looks at Cho disapprovingly.

"He must have slipped after the boss fell," Cho says emotionlessly. "He got pretty banged up on the way down."

"He hit his face, hard." Grace smiles humorlessly.

In that instant Jane loves them more than he express.

Dr. Gorgeous smiles at Teresa. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

Jane hates the man a little.

"Better," she mutters sleepily.

"Well, you need to stay here overnight, then we'll release you so long as you have someone who can stay with you for a few days," he replies.

"I am," Jane says quickly. "I'm staying with her."

"This is my…" Teresa shifts uncomfortably in the bed. Jane waits for her to say 'boyfriend,' but she says "colleague."

His stomach drops.

The doctor smirks at the tension between them. "Well, you rest now Ms. Lisbon."

She nods sleepily.

As he leaves she looks at her agents. "I'd like to talk to Jane alone, please."

There are some irritated glances, but they leave the room and close the door.

Her eyelids droop. "Where were you, Jane."

He takes her good hand and kisses the knuckles. "Las Vegas," he says, knowing that the word is poisonous.

He sees the pain in her eyes, the resignation.

"I had to do something, for us, Teresa," he assures her.

"It's fine Jane," she replies coldly. "You never made me any promises. If you want to go gamble on your days off, that's your business."

"Teresa." He takes the envelope from his pocket and sets it on the bed. He places her hand on top of it.

"What is it?" she asks.

"It's actually probably best if you don't look inside," he says. "But it's leverage."

She quirks an eyebrow, winces in pain. "Leverage?"

"I had to play several games to get to the table I wanted, to the man I wanted. I had him cleaned out, this whale, but he couldn't accept losing, so we changed the stakes from money to something else," he explains. "Secrets."

"I'm not following," she says.

"Everyone has secrets, Teresa, things they'd rather not reveal. This man, he was an old colleague of Gale Bertram from way back. He knows things Bertram would rather never come to light. Things that would end a career." Jane pats the envelope.

"I don't need you blackmailing Bertram into laying off me," she snaps. "We solved this one without you, Jane."

He looks at her in surprise. "It's not leverage for him to stop pressuring you, Reese, I always knew you'd prove that smug ass wrong." He's not sure when the name 'Reese' entered his vocabulary, but it feels right. "It's leverage so that he can't fire us or separate us when we tell him we're living together."

She squeezes her eyes closed. "What?"

"Did you think I was going anywhere?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "You may not believe this, my dear, but I'm actually a commitment-type of guy. I'm staying with you for as long as you'll have me."

She sighs, leans into his touch. "I'm tired and I hurt. Can we please talk about this later?"

He kisses her cheek. "Of course."

Her eyelids flutter shut. "You won't go anywhere, will you Patrick?"

He pulls over a chair. "Never again."


	28. Chapter 28

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: This is a little short because I wrote another story today called All On Your Own. Read and review please! Both this chapter and that story if you're awesome!

XXVIII.

Jane spends the night in an especially uncomfortable recliner in Lisbon's room. She's drugged and sleeps heavily, and he's grateful for it. Her bruises remind him to appreciate what he has rather than squander it. It is a painful lesson he thought he had learned when Red John killed his family, but realizes he didn't.

The next morning he cajoles the hospital staff into giving her whatever he thinks she'll need to be more comfortable: more blankets, an extra pudding cup, a room with a view of something other than the parking lot.

Eventually, when he suspects he is about to get kicked out by security anyway, she tells him, "Jane, go home. You're driving me insane. I'll call when they discharge me."

He looks at her guiltily. "Are you sure?"

She rolls her eyes. "Please. Go take a shower. You have that homeless vibe about you again."

He realizes he hasn't changed clothes in two days.

He presses a kiss to her forehead and retreats. He can actually hear the nurses sigh in relief.

He goes back to her place where he showers away the smell of Vegas (cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, desperation) and puts on a clean suit.

Then he goes to see Gale Bertram.

XXX

Teresa lies.

She takes a cab home because she needs the space, the room to breathe. Worried Jane is a cloying Jane. She can't imagine what he was like after Angela gave birth to Charlotte. To her relief her apartment is empty when she returns.

She doesn't have the energy to muster up concern, and truthfully, she isn't sure can worry anymore about Jane leaving her anyway.

He promised her he would stay, and she believes him, but she's also hardened herself against rejection now. She will be strong if he vanishes yet again.

His little foray to Las Vegas made her realize that Patrick Jane can't be domesticated. She knew that intellectually, but emotionally she had believed they could lead a homey little life made up of lazy morning sex and enduring friendship.

The fact that he decided to seal their commitment by gambling his way to blackmail material just goes to show that he doesn't think like a normal person. A normal person would say, "I love you, Teresa." A normal person wouldn't come up with a scheme to blackmail the director of the CBI.

She sinks onto her couch, exhausted and frustrated.

She loves him, she really does. She wants a life with him, but a real one that he doesn't define by his crazy terms.

She has to confront him.

And she is afraid it will be ugly.

XXX

Jane hears Bertram open the office door and senses his irritation. He is sitting behind the Director's desk, reorganizing his pens by color. He's also doodled on a few important looking documents.

"I don't believe we had an appointment, Mr. Jane," Bertram says, coming to stand in front of his desk, arms crossed. He obviously expects Jane to get up. "So I have to ask how you got in here," he adds.

"I lied," Jane says. "I do that a lot."

"I've noticed," Bertram says coldly. He stares Jane down, refusing to sit in the 'guest' chair, refusing to lose face.

"I have something for you," Jane says blithely, pointing to the manila envelope on the man's desk.

Bertram scowls before snatching it up and sliding the photographs and documents out. As he studies them his face turns a color Jane believes is called puce.

"You've been a naughty boy, Gale," Jane says, pointing at him with a pen.

Bertram drops the folder. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice dripping with venom. "Is this because I threatened Agent Lisbon?"

Jane stands up, slides his hands in his pockets. "Not at all. Teresa is perfectly capable police officer and we both know that. She doesn't need my protection."

"Then what?" Bertram's face is livid, ugly.

"I need some rules bent," Jane says casually. "Specifically, the no fraternizing among officers in the same division rule. Well, I'm not an officer but close enough."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Bertram demands, all semblance of civility gone.

"I'm going to marry Teresa Lisbon," Jane says evenly, calmly. "And you're going to make sure we both remain in the major crimes unit and that this will have no repercussions on her career."

Bertram barks out a harsh laugh. "Marry her? All this so you can marry, Lisbon? Does she know? What kind of scam is this?"

Jane smiles, a cold and frightening smile. "Not a scam, Gale. I do love her. And if you come after her because of me, I'll make sure every major media outlet gets copies of those pictures. _Hi-res, glossies_."

He stares Bertram down and feels the other man cave.

"Good luck on your engagement, Mr. Jane," Bertram says witheringly.

Jane strolls out of his office feeling satisfied.

He checks his messages when he gets to the lobby. Teresa has left him a voicemail. All it says is, "I'm home. We need to talk."


	29. Chapter 29

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XXIX

Teresa is lying on the couch when Jane gets home, her head pillowed in the crook of her arm.

Jane says nothing as he closes the door and locks it. He pads quietly across the living room and sets a white paper cup on the coffee table. Teresa looks up at him.

"White chocolate mocha," he says quietly. "I thought you were going to call me when they discharged you."

"I lied," she says, not getting up. "Took a page from the Jane playbook."

"That's a little harsh," he remarks quietly. He settles into the chair across from her, studies her face. She looks drawn and tired. "So are we going to have the dreaded talk now?" He can't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

There's a pause.

"What are we doing?" she asks quietly.

"Starting a relationship, I thought," he replies.

She sighs, rolls on her back to look up at the ceiling. "Are we really, Jane? I mean what about this constitutes as a relationship?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Well there's the living together and the sex."

"You moved in with me after the serial killer you were obsessively stalking for years got shot," she says dryly. "And we've had sex like four times. That's not a relationship."

"Five," he counters. "And if there's some number that _does _make it a relationship let me know and we'll work toward that."

She is silent for a moment, then she says, "You left me and went to Vegas. Like you did before."

Jane's hand clenches reflexively on the arm of the chair. "Is that what this is all about?" he asks softly. "I didn't leave you, Teresa, not like before. I was gone for forty-eight hours, and I kept in touch the entire time."

She swallows. "But you didn't tell me your plan—_again_. You ran off with your mad scheme and didn't include me."

"I didn't want to make you complicit in the whole blackmail thing," he almost snaps. "I figured I'd tell you when it was done."

"You didn't trust me or you knew I wouldn't approve?" she asks tartly. "Either answer sucks, Jane."

Neither of them speak. The clock on her entertainment center ticks loudly. She lets her arm drop over her eyes. It takes him a minute to realize she's crying.

"I was wrong," he admits finally. "I'm not good at letting people in, Reese, but I'll get better, I swear. I do trust you. I think you're the only person I trust."

She sighs loudly and sits up. She wipes away her tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Tucking her feet underneath her she reaches for the coffee he brought and sips it slowly. "Was I just the easiest option?" she asks cautiously. "After Red John died, and you realized how alone you were?"

He squeezes his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose. "How can you even say that?" he asks.

She shrugs. "We've worked together for years. I've tended all your wounds. You've grown comfortable with me. It makes sense on some level."

He straightens in the chair so suddenly it surprises her. Droplets of coffee drip from the mouth of her cup and dribble on her hand, stinging. "Quit being a coward," he says harshly.

"W-what?" She steadies the cup and sets it on the table. Her eyes are wide.

"You're backing out because you're scared," he says fiercely. "Because this is the first real relationship you've had since Greg. You backed out of that too."

"I was twenty-two!" she snaps.

"You're acting like I'm the one who won't commit. I was happily married, Teresa. I had a family. I think you're the one who's scared of this and you're making excuses to run away." His voice has gotten a little softer, but the demanding edge is still there. He's pinning her down, like a butterfly under glass. "I won't leave you, Teresa. I can't."

She sucks in a breath. "So am I your new obsession then?" There's a hint of cruelty in her question.

He looks pained and she instantly regrets her words. He stands up and comes to sit down next to her, crowding her space. Taking her face in his hands he says, "I am not your father. I may disappoint you sometimes, Reese, but I will always be here."

Her throat is tight.

"Admit it," he whispers. "We should have been here years ago."

She closes her eyes, tries to pull away, but he holds her there. "I want the whole thing, Jane, the house, the family, but then I think about it…and it's like I panic, thinking how it can all be taken away."

She remembers her mother's wake, and how lost she felt, how terrified. Even then she knew her father wouldn't step up.

"I know," he says. "Believe me I know."

"I need to know that…that what you feel is…" She falters.

Jane smiles, the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Are you asking if I love you, Teresa?"

Despite herself, she flushes.

"I told you once before," he points out.

"You said you forgot!" she protests.

He rolls his eyes. "Do I ever forget anything?" He kisses her, softly. "I love you, Teresa."

"Love you too," she whispers. "But I still don't know…"

"Don't," he begs. "Just don't. Can we at least try to make this work?"

She swallows, nods.

"How long are you off work?" he asks, touching her cast carefully.

"Two weeks, then I can go back on desk duty," she says.

"Take more time off," he suggests. "I know you have it. Take some time off and just be with me, Patrick, and see if we can make this work. Let me prove to you that I love you and I'm here. Let me woo you."

She chuckles despite herself. "Woo?"

He kisses her, deeply, parting her lips and invading her mouth. His arms are tight around her and she feels a little dizzy.

"Woo," he confirms when he pulls back.

She takes a deep breath. "We'll try," she says. "That's the most I can promise."

He grins at her. "You're going to marry me, you know."

She rolls her eyes. "We'll see about that, Paddy."

A/N: I was going to end here, but then Domestic Jane wanted to play again, so… a few more chapters I think. Please review. Let me know if you're getting tired and we can wrap things up. You want some woo'ing let me know that too.


	30. Chapter 30

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Before Sunday, for Country 2776. I'll work on the other request.

XXX.

Teresa stays on the couch while Jane goes to the kitchen to make them some lunch.

'You're going to marry me, you know.'

The words hang around her head like a fog. She wonders if he means them or if it's just Jane being cocky as usual. She wonders what being married to him would be like. She knows he enjoyed being a husband and father, but he also enjoyed being a lying conman. Patrick Jane is a man filled with contradictions.

She stares at her ceiling—it really needs to be painted—and wonders what he was like with Angela. It's something that she would never ask him; the subject is obviously taboo.

He loved his wife and Charlotte, that much she knows. She wonders if he was as attentive to them in life as he was after their deaths, though. Did their murders make him realize how blessed he was to have them for his family? Or did he know all along? He was married so young, twenty-two; would his marriage to Angela have stood the test of time? She likes to think so.

She knows Jane never had much of a childhood. His father was a gambler and a drunk. He's never mentioned his mother, not once. She thinks that he would have known, would have cherished how precious his family was right from the beginning. It makes their deaths all the more cruel.

She fiddles with the cross. She's never believed in soul mates. People are either compatible or they're not. She believes you can love two people deeply in the same lifetime.

She's often thought that if her father could have found another wife, someone who could just hold him up, he wouldn't have died the way he did. He could have been a good man again.

She does believe in the sanctity of marriage, though. If Jane is serious, if he does want to marry her, then it has to be for real. That was part of the reason she left Greg; she doesn't believe in divorce except in the most extreme circumstances, and she didn't want to trap herself in a relationship that might sour as they aged.

Of course, she's had plenty of time with Jane, plenty of time to learn to cope with all his annoying habits—

"Stop thinking so hard," he says, walking into the room with a tray.

She sits up. "Hmmm?"

"I can see the gears in your head turning," he remarks, setting the tray on the coffee table. "Whatever you're mulling over, let it go for now."

"What if I was mulling over how I was going to do horrible, wicked things to you this week?" she asks sarcastically.

He grins. "Well, in that case, mull away. Unless you're talking about 'horrible and wicked' as in making me watch those awful reality TV shows of yours. Then think again."

"I do not watch reality TV," she mutters, and wonders if he heard her discussing the Bachelorette with Mary from Accounts Receivable.

She glances at the tray. Jane has made them grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. The bread is grilled golden brown and the soup steams appetizingly. She tosses a pillow on the floor so she can sit on it in front of the table and eat. She's afraid if she puts the bowl on her lap she'll knock it off with her cast.

"I used to make this for Tommy," she says, blowing on a spoonful of soup. "Except I didn't use whole grain bread obviously. He would only eat that spongy white stuff."

"Wonder Bread was the best," Jane confirms, dipping a corner of his sandwich into his soup. "When my dad would forget to come home for dinner I'd make potato chip and butter sandwiches."

She grimaces. "Jane, that's disgusting."

"Not when you're ten," he argues, taking a bite of his sandwich. "Did you know you lose your ability to taste as you age? I always wonder if kids hate adult food because the other stuff is secretly better and we just can't taste it anymore. Maybe hotdogs and mac 'n cheese really is amazing."

She smiles, taking a bite of her sandwich. He's made with some kind of kind of white cheese, definitely not American. It's probably one of those artisanal ones he bought when they shopped together. It's the best thing she's had in a long time.

They eat quietly for awhile, relishing the simple pleasure of the meal. She is scraping her bowl clean when her eyelids begin to droop. Her arm and head are throbbing a little, not enough to be agonizing, but an obnoxious background pain.

"You should get some rest," he tells her. "You may be tough but you're body needs time to recover."

She sighs and stands up. Jane follows her to her bedroom and helps her into her pajamas. Navigating her broken arm is harder than she thought. She realizes she's going to need him to help put her bra on every day; the thought is mildly embarrassing, which is shouldn't be since she's okay if he wants to help take it off.

"Stop thinking about sex," he remarks.

She rolls her eyes. "How do you know what I'm thinking?"

He taps his temple. "Psychic powers remember?"

"There's no such thing as psychics."

She lies down and he pulls the blankets over her, kisses her. "I could always tell when you were thinking about something naughty, and no, I won't reveal how. Takes all the fun out of it."

"Hmph," she mumbles.

"Get some rest, Teresa," he says, and quietly closes the door.

XXX

Once Teresa is asleep Jane cleans up their lunch dishes and then sets about planning.

He has wooing to do, and he intends to do it properly. Truth be told, he never really dated Angela, not in the traditional sense. They fell madly in love and rather than running off to the circus, ran away from it. He's never actually dated anyone properly, with the exception of Kristina Frye and _that_ ended well.

After they were married he'd spoil Angie, take her to the theater, to expensive restaurants, on exotic trips. Despite all of that they were stills a couple of carnie kids, happier to sit at home eating pizza and watching old movies then they were going to the newest club or trendiest hot spot. He loved her for that. He loves Teresa for that too.

_He loves Teresa._

It was easier to say than he'd thought it would be. When he told her the first time, hugging her, about to shoot her, he'd just realized it himself. The moment the words left his mouth he'd felt shame and relief. It was petty and juvenile to pretend to forget, but he couldn't cope with it then.

Now it's easier. He loves her, not the way he loved Angie, but in a different way unique to the two of them.

He's starting to realize that this is okay, that it's fine to have the capacity to love more than one person. He's starting to realize he didn't die with his wife and daughter.

Belatedly he realizes his eyes are moist, and takes his hands out of the soapy dishwater long enough to wipe at them with his sleeve.

He doesn't deserve this kind of second chance, but he'll make it good on it. He says a silent vow that he will.

A/N: The potato chip and butter sandwiches are from my childhood. A group of kids and I used to eat them at summer camp because we hated the food there so much. The thought of eating one now makes me gag.

In answer to Et Voila's question, they technically only did have sex four times, unless you count the night he, uh, pleasured her. I just can't count. They made love after the bath, then there was a comment that they had fallen asleep after time number three. They also made love the following morning and Teresa was late to work because of it. It just all happened off screen.


	31. Chapter 31

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Fluff! This strays into mild-M territory. Read! Review!

XXXI.

She can see Jane ahead of her, his blond hair reflecting gold in the streetlights. He's headed for the warehouse, the darkened doorway like the gaping maw of a beast.

Red John waits inside that warehouse, his trap carefully laid.

She chases after Jane, her legs feeling slow and heavy. She shouts for him to wait, to stop, but her voice comes out in a little miserable squeak.

She needs to catch him, stop him. He'll die if he goes in there. He doesn't turn back to look at her, doesn't know she's behind him. She tries to hurry, but it's like running through molasses.

He vanishes into the dark doorway, and she sobs, knowing she'll never see him again.

"Reese!"

Something stops her, shakes her. She pushes it off.

"Teresa, wake up!"

She sits up, gasping. The fog lifts from her head and she realizes she's in her bed. Jane is sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand on her shoulder. Sweat has pooled between breasts and at the small of her back.

"You were having a bad dream," Jane says, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

She draws in a deep breath and leans against his chest, inhaling the clean, masculine smell of him. She toys with the collar of his gray tee shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

She wants to say, 'I dreamed you died for your obsession. I dreamed you left me,' but the words won't come out. She shakes her head, presses more tightly against him.

He holds her for a while, saying nothing, but rubbing small, comforting circles on her back.

Finally she pulls back. "How long did I sleep?" she asks hoarsely.

He kisses her forehead. "A few hours. You needed it."

"I need a shower," she observes, feeling sweaty and fetid.

"Do you want help wrapping your arm?" he asks.

She groans, having forgotten about the cast. "I can get it," she insists stubbornly.

In the end he helps tape the plastic bag over her cast. She feels foolish, standing naked on the bathmat while he tends to her. He sits on the toilet while she showers, chatting at her, ignoring the fact that she's being sullen and wants to be alone.

"Do you need help in there?" he asks, watching her intently through the foggy glass shower-door.

"I'm fine," she says.

"Because I can be extremely helpful," he offers seductively.

She shivers despite the hot water. "I'm sure you can," she replies tartly. "But my head and arm are aching and quite honestly, I'm not in the mood."

He sighs. "More tragic words were never spoken."

He waits a moment while she soaps her hair with one hand.

"I went shopping while you slept," he says.

"Oh?" She fumbles with the conditioner, drops it on the shower floor and mutters a mild curse under her breath.

"You're sure you don't need help?" he asks again.

"_Yes, Jane_," she says irritably. More kindly she asks, "What did you buy?"

"Patrick," he corrects. "Oh, just some things to keep us amused on your leave of absence. You really don't own much in the way of movies of games, Teresa."

"I usually don't have time for that kind of thing," she replies. "Which movies?"

"A whole variety, although I steered away from any cop thrillers. Wouldn't want you to feel the urge to return to work early," he says.

He hands her a towel as she steps out of the shower. Without waiting for her to argue with him, he takes his towel off the hook and helps dry her back and her hair. She peels the wet plastic from her arm and drops into the waste bin.

She feels better after the heat of the shower washed away the muscle tension and sweat from her nightmare. She lets Jane brush her hair, even though she can do it herself. She's never had a lover take these little liberties, little intimacies before. It feels strange to her, but also comfortable and warm. It frightens her because if he does leave, she'll miss these tender touches more than anything.

"Can we watch a movie?" she asks, changing her train of thought before she gets overwhelmed.

"Sure," he says. "Pick one from the pile next to your TV. I'll make some popcorn."

She puts on a robe and heads for the living room. She gasps when she sees the haul Jane bought for them. Probably fifty movies, a dozen board games, a giant shopping bag filled with books and puzzles.

"Jane!" she says. "You didn't have to do this! We'll never finish all of this."

He carries an orange plastic bowl filled with microwave popcorn into the room, sets in on an end table. "Sure we will," he argues. "You're taking an extended leave of absence, remember?"

She nibbles on her lower lip. "Maybe." She hates to think of Van Pelt, Cho and Rigsby without her.

"They'll be fine, Reese," he yells over his shoulder as he returns to the kitchen.

"I hate it when you do that," she mutters, sitting on the floor and sorting through the DVDs. She looks at the packaging. "Jane, I don't have a Blu-ray player."

"Sure you do," he says, returning with two diet sodas. "It's already plugged in."

She sighs. "You really didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to," he says glibly.

"If I wanted a man to buy me stuff, I could have stayed with Mashburn," she mutters, feeling embarrassed. She's always struggled to accept gifts graciously.

"Who says this is all for you, woman?" he asks. "I have to live with you if you're bored."

She rolls her eyes. Jane bought the entire James Bond collection among many other things. She hasn't seen more than a few. She selects a title at random and slides the disc into the player.

She settles on the couch next to him, letting him work the remote since she has no idea how he set her system up. He stretches out on the sofa, and she settles against his chest, resting the popcorn in her lap. His arm falls comfortably around her waist.

A ways into the film she swallows a bite of popcorn and says, "This is so cheesy. The car just turned into a submarine."

"You did pick a film from the Roger Moore era," he says. "He was never my favorite Bond. I was always afraid his hairpiece would fly off in an action sequence."

She laughs, settles more comfortably against him. She's absorbed in the movie once again when she realizes Jane is slowly unknotting her robe with one hand.

"Hmm. What you are doing?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says slyly, kissing her temple. "Watch the movie."

She snorts when Bond tosses a fish from the window. "How did that get there if the car was waterproof—_oh_."

His hand has found her breast and is massaging it gently, his thumb brushing her nipple.

His lips find her neck, whisper kisses beneath her ear. She shifts on the cushion, feeling the blood pool low in her body.

His teeth tug at her earlobe. She hums in pleasure.

"In the mood yet?" he asks coyly.

She sighs. "No. Not really."

She lets out a squeak and giggle when his fingers prod her side, tickling her.

She turns around in his arms, straddling him. She kisses him. "This really is an awful movie."

"Mmm-hmm," he agrees, kissing her back, parting her lips with his. His tongue is hot and wicked.

She shucks the robe, tugs his pajama pants down.

"Patrick," she whispers, when they are joined.

He grasps her hips in his hands, kisses her worshipfully. "I love you, Teresa."


	32. Chapter 32

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: A short teaser chapter for a longer Thanksgiving piece. I'd post more now—but I have to get to my own family dinner. I'm thankful for reviews, BTW…

XXXII.

Two weeks later and the pain in Teresa's head and arm have more or less disappeared. Now the cast is more of an annoyance than anything else.

Now her biggest concern is boredom. Sure she has Jane to entertain her, but she is used to working long hours, to throwing herself into her job. Getting eight solid hours of sleep is great, sure, but how do you fill the rest of the day?

Sunlight filters in her dining room window, painting her kitchen table and the 2,000 piece puzzle Jane bought a happy yellow hue. She sorts through the pieces quietly, trying to piece together the field of poppies. She realizes now that Jane wasn't kidding about the giant bag of movies, books and games he bought. A bored Lisbon is a dangerous Lisbon.

She tries to force two pieces together, sighing when they won't click into place. The whole puzzle is a mess of green and red and brown. How is she supposed to figure out where anything goes? She debates just smashing the little cardboard pieces together until they fit.

"You know, that's supposed to be a relaxing pastime," Jane says with a sly grin as he strolls into the room.

He is wearing a pair of deep blue fleece pajama pants and nothing else. His blond hair is a mess, and to her he looks deliciously rumpled and sexy. He runs his hand through his curls and she sighs.

He bends down and kisses her lips. He tastes like sleep and like Jane.

"Since when did you start doing puzzles?" he asks, rifling through the pieces and snapping a few together. "When I bought this I thought it would get relegated to some dusty corner of your closet."

"I couldn't sleep," she says. "And I didn't want to turn on the TV and wake you."

He smiles at her lovingly. Jane's newfound ability to sleep through the night is something they've both noticed, but haven't discussed. It's as if they are afraid to jinx it.

They work on the puzzle silently for a half hour, Teresa sipping her coffee, Jane getting up to make tea. When they have a corner finished Jane says, "We'll have to get this done pretty quickly. We need to use your dining room table."

She raises and eyebrow, sensing a plot afoot. "For?" she asks. They usually eat in her living room.

"Thanksgiving," he says, as if it's obvious. "Annie and Tommy are coming over."

"_What_?" She slams her mug down, a little coffee sloshing over the edge. "I already told them we weren't planning on anything this year."

Jane doesn't even look up from the pieces he's sorting through. "Because you hate flying on the holiday, I know. So I used some of my poker winnings to fly them here for the holiday. I know you felt bad missing out on seeing them."

She tries to be angry at his presumption, but inside she's burbling with a quiet joy that she'll see her brother and niece. "Thanksgiving is in two days, Jane," she scolds. "When were you going to tell me?"

"This morning, obviously." He rolls his eyes.

She settles back into her chair and thinks about having her family—well part of it—together for the holiday. She thinks about the holidays she made for her brothers after their parents' deaths, the meals she cooked, the presents she wrapped. She never got to enjoy them very much because she was the one orchestrating everything. Then came Tommy's falling out with her other brothers, and well, holidays just sort of stopped.

"We'll need to go shopping today," she says excitedly, "before all the good turkeys are gone. And I need to clean this place. Oh, and Annabeth loves pecan pie, so I need to buy one of those. I'm not even trying to make one from scratch."

"Well, we'd better shower then," he says with a grin. "I'll help you wash your back."

XXX

The apartment smells warm and rich, like sweet spices and cranberries. Teresa sets the table while Jane putters around her in kitchen. He's actually pretty helpful on the cooking front, although she's done most of the work herself. It's been a long time since she's prepared a meal like this, and she takes pleasure in it.

The doorbell rings.

"I'm coming," she yells to Jane.

He pokes his head outside the kitchen door. "I'm very happy for you, but your family is here."

She rolls her eyes.

As she passes him on her way to answer the door, she suppresses a smile at Jane, in his usual slacks and shirt sleeves, wearing an apron and basting a turkey. It's absurd and somehow exactly right.

Annie throws herself into her aunt's arms the moment she opens the door. Tommy is behind her, holding a bottle wine and a bouquet of wilted gas station flowers. She smiles and takes both.

Jane comes into the hallway and takes the wine from her. He's discarded the apron, sadly.

"Patrick!" Annie says happily, hugging him too.

He kisses the top of the girl's head.

Teresa's heart swells, just for a moment. For a moment, everything is perfect.


	33. Chapter 33

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XXXIII.

Jane retreats back to the kitchen and allows Teresa a moment alone with her brother and niece. He occupies himself making sure the gravy is thickening, then pouring it into the gravy boat he bought yesterday. He shakes his head at the sad state of Teresa Lisbon's kitchen. No gravy boat…heathen.

Teresa really did all the cooking, and for once he let her do all the work. She seemed to find joy in preparing the small feast. He hovered in the kitchen door most of the morning, listening to her hum while she worked, helping chop or wash or mash as she directed.

Once the Lisbon family is done with their hellos, Teresa helps him put everything in bowls and on platters, and they carry their dinner to the table. Jane pops the bottle of wine Tommy brought and pours three glasses.

"Can I have one?" Annie asks hopefully.

"Oh sure," Teresa says. "And after dinner we'll take you outside and let you shoot my gun."

"Really?" Annie's voice is laced with sarcasm.

Jane pours the girl a glass of milk.

"Milk? Really?" she asks, rolling her eyes.

"Vitamin D and calcium are very important for women," Jane says, sitting down and placing his napkin on his lap. "They're more likely to get osteoporosis."

Annie huffs but seems appeased that he threw her into the 'woman' category, rather than calling her a girl. Truthfully he poured the milk without thought; it was what Charlotte always drank with dinner.

The fifteen-year-old begins heaping a fluffy mountain of mashed potatoes on her plate when Teresa clears her throat loudly. She holds out both her hands. Jane takes one, then grasps Annie's hand in his other. He watches Teresa and her brother bow their heads. He squeezes Annie's hand until she does too.

He doesn't say grace along with Teresa, doesn't feel compelled to observe the tradition, but he keeps quiet. While he doesn't believe in God he does understand the need to be thankful. He is acutely aware of how quickly life can become cruel, how low a person can fall. He remembers his wife and daughter, as he does every day; he remembers the psychiatric hospital.

He looks at Teresa, her face serene, eyes closed. He is thankful for this, his second chance.

She says "Amen," and looks up at him. Her eyes are bright, her hair is a whisper of midnight against her black V-neck sweater. Sometimes he overwhelmed at how beautiful she is. When he turns he head he notices Annabeth watching him intently.

"It was really nice of you to fly us out here, Patrick," Tommy says somewhat uncomfortably. He passes his daughter the cranberry sauce.

"Think nothing of it," Jane replies glibly. "I came into some money during a poker tournament. I'm trying to find more altruistic ways of spending it."

Annie hands him the cranberries. "You play poker? That's so cool. Can you teach me?"

"Sure," Jane says at the exact same time Teresa replies "No."

The teenager grins.

They fill their plates gluttonously, sticking to safe topics as they eat. Tommy and Annie tell them about bounty hunting and school. Teresa tells them how she broke her arm. Jane occasionally throws in his two cents about police work or shares an embarrassing story about Teresa.

"Did you know your aunt reads gossip magazines?" he asks Annie.

"Ugh, no." She wrinkles her nose. "That's so lame, Aunt Reese."

"Says the girl who has a bookshelf full of romance novels," her father teases.

Annie flushes. "Dad!"

Tommy grins. "So Patrick, why are you condemned to the Lisbon family Thanksgiving? Your family out of state?"

"Thomas," Teresa hisses under her breath.

There is a moment of intense discomfort. Jane says calmly. "My wife and daughter died ten years ago."

Tommy's face twists in embarrassment and pity, and Jane feels sick.

Annie, with the wisdom of the young, says matter-of-fact, "When then you belong here with us."

"You and Reese have been working together for a long time," Tommy says, clearly trying to cover for his misstep. "You're probably closer to her than she is to any of us by now. Just like family, right Reese?"

Teresa sips her wine, her face a little piqued. "Yes."

_You can tell them_, he thinks silently, but she is quiet as she cuts into her turkey. They move on to safer subjects.

He feels disappointed, but then, how do you tell your little brother and niece that your employee is your lover? 'Well, Jane and I fell into bed after the man who killed is family was shot to death. Time to move on and all that.'

She looks at him, and he can see the guilt in her eyes. Under the table he squeezes her knee affectionately.

XXX

Later he is rinsing dishes when Annie breezes into the kitchen. He hands her a platter. "You dry," he commands.

"So…" she grabs a towel. "You're totally into my aunt, aren't you?"

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "What makes you think that?"

"The way you looked at her at dinner," she says. "You were like ogling her."

"I wouldn't say 'ogling,'" he replies. "More like appreciating. Your aunt is a very beautiful woman."

"Obv," she says. "You should totally ask her out."

He looks as if he's never thought of this before. "I don't know; we work together. If she said no, it would be really weird."

"She won't say no," Annie assures him. "She's into you. I can tell. There's this vibe."

"Hmm." He turns off the sink and turns to face her. He crosses his arms and acts as if he's thinking intently. "You think you can convince her?"

"Oh yeah!" she nods her head.

"Convince me of what?" Teresa asks, walking into the kitchen.

"Patrick and I were saying you need to get out more." Annie's lie is immediate and alarmingly convincing. "Since you're off for your arm and stuff, you should like, try to have a life, Aunt Reese."

"I have a life," Teresa says indignantly. "Besides how would you know?"

"You and Patrick should do something together, for fun," Annie says emphatically. "When was the last time you went to a movie?"

"Movies are trite," Jane throws in. "How about the ballet?"

Teresa wrinkles her nose. "Ballet?"

"Ballet has been around since the 15th century, Teresa," he chides. "It's a highly regarded art."

"Sure Jane, I'll go to the ballet with you." Her voice is choking with sarcasm.

Annie looks exasperated. "The ballet _is_ pretty lame, Patrick."

He nudges her arm. "Help me out here, kid. I'm trying to introduce your aunt to some culture."

Teresa just shakes her head and leaves the room. He gives Annie a gentle shove.

"Go on," he says. "Work your magic."

XXX

Annie sits cross-legged on Teresa's bed. "Why won't you go to the ballet with Patrick?" she asks earnestly.

Teresa lies on her side next to her niece, who moments ago had insisted they needed a 'girl talk.' Coming from Annabeth, that was serious indeed. She can hear Jane and Tommy watching football in the living room. Jane must be dying of boredom, she thinks wryly.

"He was just teasing, Annie," she says.

The teenager bites her lip, looks conflicted, then says. "I don't think he was. I mean, I think he really wants to go out with you, Aunt Reese." Before Teresa can interject she rushes on. "And he's so hot! Seriously, have you _looked_ at him? And yeah his wife and kid died, but that was ten years ago. I mean you guys should totally hook up."

Teresa swallows a laugh. "Did he put you up to this?"

"No," Annie says so quickly she knows it's a lie.

"Annabeth," Teresa says. "Look around the room and tell me what you see."

Annie studies the bedroom for a moment then looks uncomfortable. "Um, your stuff, but also books on both nightstands, and guy's pajama pants hanging on the chair. Oh my God, Aunt Reese, are you already seeing someone? You have to tell Patrick!"

Teresa rolls her eyes skyward. "Annie, he lives here. We're…we're together."

She hasn't told anyone that yet, not even the team really. She was afraid to tell Tommy and Annie before, afraid she would ruin it somehow by making it official.

Annie turns red. "I'm so going to kill him!"

Teresa laughs. "Let's just leave him watching football for awhile yet. That should do it."

XXX

A few hours later Annie and Tommy leave for their hotel. After a few lingering hugs Teresa closes the door.

"You embarrassed my niece horribly, Jane," she chides.

"Meh, she should stop meddling in adults' love lives," he replies. "And you should have told them."

"I know," she says softly. "I'm sorry. Once I did tell her…It felt good, Patrick."

She pauses in the hallway, watches him. "You're being unusually quiet tonight."

He's silent for a moment, considering. "I miss them more on holidays."

Her throat tightens up. Of course.

She hugs him from behind, pressing her cheek to his back. She knows that there is nothing she can do to ease his pain. His hands grasp hers. "If you were serious about the ballet, I'll go." Her words are muffled against his shirt.

"Oh I was serious," he says, his voice light again.

She groans. "Just make sure you take my gun away."


	34. Chapter 34

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Reviewers are awesome!

XXXIV.

"I miss them more on holidays."

Jane surprises himself with the confession. He's never hidden his grief from her before—grief was what fueled his decade long hunt for a serial killer. Now that they're together…he feels like he should be _better_ somehow.

The warm press of her cheek against his back is comforting, but also underscores his pain. He hurts because Angela and Charlotte are gone. He hurts because he feels guilty for having a nice holiday without them.

She offers to go the ballet, a concession he knew she secretly wanted to make.

The apartment tidied and locked up, and they make their way to the bedroom. He likes the routine of climbing the stairs with her at the end of the night.

The room is lit only by the diffuse orange glow of a single bedside lamp. He unbuttons his vest, hangs it up. Teresa touches his shoulder lightly and turns him to face her. Quietly she unbuttons his shirt, stretching up on her tip toes to kiss him.

He lets her undress him, relishes the feel of delicate hands on his chest, his hips, his calves. When she stays on her knees in front of him, he squeezes his eyes closed in pleasure.

Only Teresa could give comfort and pleasure at the same time. Every touch is a reassurance. We are together. I've got you. Let go.

He touches her cheek, urges her to stand again. She leads him to the bed. He loses himself in long kisses and perfumed hair. Her waist is tiny in his hands.

She sets her hands on either side of his head and takes him into her body. Her possession is warm and safe and lovely. Her hair falls around them in a dark curtain. She is slow, the sensations lingering. She kisses his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his ear.

He finds sanctuary in her.

I should have done this years ago, he thinks.

XXX

He wakes up long before morning. Teresa is curled into his side, her arm draped over him.

He strokes her hair and thinks. He wonders what it would be like to have a family with her. Moments spent with Annie make him long for a child again, although the longing is tinged red with guilt. His daughter died because of his vanity and arrogance. He doesn't deserve to be a father again—but it doesn't change the fact that he wants to be.

They aren't too old, he thinks. Teresa certainly has youth and vigor on her side. He's never asked if she wants children; he suspects so, but she surprises him sometimes. She's already balked at the thought of them being in a long term relationship. She laughed him off when he suggested marriage. He wonders what she'd do if he asked her to carry his child. Cry? Hit him upside the head?

Quietly he slips out of her embrace. She murmurs unhappily in her sleep. The apartment is chilly. They turned down the thermostat while cooking because the oven was giving off so much heat.

He tucks the blankets around her tightly and kisses her cheek.

He reaches for his robe and wanders down to the kitchen. Standing by the light of the open fridge, scanning its contents, he scratches his chest idly. Years ago, after he found their bodies, he felt as if he were slowly being devoured from inside by some kind of beast. It was a horrible gnawing pain that no one else could see. Then scar tissue formed over the wound, aching but not debilitating.

Now he feels the sharp pain of that old scar tissue breaking up, healing. Blood is starting to run back to the place he closed off, reviving him.

It's wonderful and terrifying.

He takes a slice of pumpkin pie from the fridge—Teresa sent the rest of the pecan pie home with Annie—and pours himself a glass of milk.

He eats by the light of the muted TV, scrolling through twenty-four hours news stations and infomercials. He stops at a cable channel that features true crime stories for the people who have no idea what the reality of murder is like. It is a special on Red John, the seemingly normal man who became a depraved serial killer. He turns up the volume a little. A psychiatrist talks about childhood trauma as if that can explain being born evil.

His own likeness, that awful TV appearance, flashes on and he looks at his younger, arrogant, foolish self with distaste. They don't show a photo of his wife or child. He never released one to the media, and it wasn't as if Angela's parents would give one up. Their faces are safely locked in his heart. Teresa Lisbon's CBI image—the one where she looks bored and a little stunned—appears when they talk about the woman leading the task force that killed Red John. Saint Teresa.

He smiles.

It's easier to watch than he expected, which troubles him. It shouldn't, he thinks; it means he's healing.

He scratches at his chest again, as if he could feel the scars.

He goes to the box of his things he moved into her spare room. He takes out the framed photo of Angela and Charlotte and carries it to her living room. He places it next the photo of her three brothers. Without asking, he knows she won't mind.

He leaves his dirty dishes in the living room and goes back to bed. When he slides under the sheets next to her she sighs contently.

"Where'd you go?" she mumbles sleepily.

"Had some pie," he whispers.

Her hand falls to his stomach, pats it. "Gonna get fat," she teases.

He kisses her forehead. "Teresa?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for saving my life."

She snuggles in closer. "Don't be silly, Patrick. Love you."

Another scar cracks apart.

"Love you, too, Reese."


	35. Chapter 35

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: So much fluff… Please review!

XXXV.

Teresa frowns at herself in the mirror; the hairstyle she's trying to copy from a fashion magazine isn't working.

She didn't exactly have the time as a teenager to practice up-dos with her girlfriends; this is all foreign to her. Groaning in frustration she takes her hairbrush and pulls the mess apart, leaving her hair curling around her bare shoulders.

She's wearing a black sleeveless dress that hits her just above the knee. The sweetheart neckline shows ample cleavage. She hopes it's not too scandalous for the ballet Jane talked her into attending.

Her cast had been removed the previous day, and her bad arm is pale and homely. She's hoping with the cleavage no one will notice—no one besides, Jane that is. He notices everything.

She swipes some mascara on and stands back to glance at herself one last time. The dress, the hair, the smoky eyes…she wonders if she should have added a pop of color.

Shrugging she leaves the bathroom, grabs her heels from her closet, and goes downstairs.

Jane is sitting patiently on her couch, a tie added to his usual suit and waistcoat, flipping through a book. He glances up as she walks downstairs and his eyes darken hungrily.

She feels her stomach clench in anticipation. She wishes they could skip the stupid ballet and stay here. The man is positively delectable.

"Now, Lisbon," he teases, "anticipation makes everything sweeter."

She quirks an eyebrow. "I'm not going to ask how you know what I'm thinking."

He brushes a soft kiss to her lips, careful not smudge her lipstick and gives her a cheeky grin. "Maybe I was just referring to what _I_ was thinking about."

He helps her into a jacket and she steps into her heels. His hand is warm on her back as he guides her to his car.

She's always been a beer and burger girl, but she's a little thrilled when he pulls into the parking lot of a small, romantic Italian place. Even Teresa Lisbon likes getting dressed up and going out once in awhile.

It's the sort of restaurant that doesn't take reservations, but of course Jane somehow manages to jump the line and get them a table immediately. She doesn't know if it's his charm working its magic or a bribe, but she doesn't care because she's famished.

They order a bottle of wine and two Caesar salads (at least we'll both have garlic breath, she thinks). Jane orders dinner for them, saltimbocca for her, spaghetti with a light marinara and lamb for himself.

She sips her water. "That's really annoying, you know."

"What is?" He touches his tie reflexively, as if he's uncomfortable wearing it.

"The ordering for me without consulting me," she says. "It's presumptuous."

"Did I get it wrong?" he asks arrogantly.

She scowls.

The wine is served and they drink, slipping into familiar and comfortable conversation. As she's eating the first few bites of her salad, Teresa feels an uncomfortable sensation low in her belly. She shifts her weight and frowns.

"Excuse me, please," she says politely, leaving for the ladies room.

Once there she is grateful that she slipped a tampon into her little clutch bag.

When she sits back down Jane is studying her speculatively. "I guess we'll have to order chocolate for dessert then," he teases.

"Do you know everything?" she asks, embarrassed. "A little privacy now and then isn't a bad thing, Jane."

"Patrick." He shrugs. "I can count to twenty-eight, Teresa."

"Why are you paying attention to that in the first place?" she asks, holding her wineglass out to him to be refilled.

"I like to think I'm not entirely oblivious to my lover's body," he says a little defensively. "It would certainly be my business if you were late."

"Well, I'm not," she says quietly.

She watches his expression. Anyone else, anyone who had not spent a decade with Patrick Jane would miss it, but she sees the tiny flutter of disappointment pass through his features. Suddenly she feels flush, her pulse a little erratic. She's having a panic attack, she realizes, because Jane wants a baby. She swallows a large mouthful of wine, nearly chokes.

Jane raises his eyebrows. "You okay there, Reese?"

She dabs her lips with her napkin. "Fine."

Motherhood was something she put away a long time ago. She's a career woman, working sixty-hours a week. She can't schedule murders around ballet recitals and soccer games. Besides, she practically raised her brothers. She's already been a mother once in her life.

But not to a baby, she thinks. Not to some sweet, delicate thing that she and Patrick brought into this world. It would be _his_ child too. She wouldn't be raising it alone, and Jane would be a marvelous father. His rapport with children is endearing.

Her chest hurts a little from the sudden wanting.

"You okay, Reese?" he asks again, his voice soft this time.

She bites her lip, relieved to see the server arrive with their food. "I'll be fine," she says.

XXX

Jane finds their seats at the theatre, and takes Teresa's hand as they sit down beside each other.

Her change in attitude midway through the meal has been bothering him. Was she so embarrassed that he knew when her period was due? That wasn't like the Teresa he knows. Something is on her mind, he can tell. He's not sure what, which is infuriating to say the least.

He leans in close to her. "You'll love Swan Lake," he says. "Trust me."

"Hmm. I've heard that before," she teases.

He smiles at her. She is remarkable tonight, all soft curves and pale skin. He knows she'll be in no mood for sex later, and he doesn't blame her, but he's filing away the sight of her in that dress for later. He'll have to think of more events to attend that require little black dresses and high heels. He sets his hand on her nylon clad knee and squeezes affectionately.

As if she can read his mind she says slyly, "Don't worry, I've still got plans for you later." She pats his thigh, her hand too high to be decent.

God, he loves this woman.

The curtain opens and the ballet begins. For a time he loses himself in the music, in the artistry of the dance. Long and graceful limbs become feathered wings, fluttering and wild. Odette and the darker Odile yearn for love and yearn to destroy it. It is beautiful.

He hears a soft sound and looks over. Teresa is sound asleep.

He grins, shifts so that her head rests on his shoulder.

He'll never let her forget this.

XXX

Later they take a stroll along the shop fronts downtown.

Teresa takes a deep breath of chilly evening air.

"Have a good rest?" Jane asks playfully.

"I only drifted off for a little bit," she replies.

"You slept through most of it," he retorts. "The snoring was especially distracting."

She pokes him. "I do not snore."

"Not to mention the drool."

Jane pauses in front of a well-lit shop window. She loops her arm though his. It's a jewelry store, a display of expensive diamond engagement rings twinkling in the window.

She feels that panic again, rising up from her belly. "Planning on how to rob the joint?" she teases.

There is naked longing on his face. "How did you guess?" he asks, but she hears the sadness in his tone.

She loves him so much in that moment that she raises up on her tip toes and kisses him. Then she says something that shocks herself. "I like the one in the middle."

Jane's expression turns to one of surprise. "Do you now?"

She falters for a moment, nervous and excited all at once. "Just for future reference."

He smiles at her, squeezes her arm. "I'll file that away in my memory palace."


	36. Chapter 36

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/ N: A very short chapter, but the best I can do while traveling for work. Sorry guys!

XXXVI.

The night air is getting chilly, and Jane slings his arm around Teresa's shoulders. She's wearing his jacket and she's very small inside of it.

He knows that her concession about the ring was meant to offer him a measure of comfort, knows that it's far too soon for her to consider marriage. It's too soon for both of them.

Her heels click on the sidewalk as they stroll back to his car.

"I did like the ballet," she tells him. "The parts I was awake for."

He grins at her.

"I had one of those ballerina jewelry boxes as a little girl," she says. "The kind where the dancer spun in a little circle when you opened the lid."

"I think all little girls have one of those," he says. Charlotte did.

She nestles in closer to him. "Do you realize it's been two months since either of us has been called to a murder scene?"

He hadn't thought of the time before then. He extended his leave to coincide with hers. Days blended seamlessly into one another until thoughts of his blue teacup and worn leather sofa faded away. She was always the anchor that kept him there, anyway.

"It's nice," Teresa notes, "to be normal."

It is nice, he thinks. It's so close to perfect that it hurts.

XXX

Later that night she rolls over and nudges him. "I can't sleep."

"Of course not," he says, "you had a nice nap before."

"You'll never let that down, will you?"

"Nope."

He flips on the bedside lamp and she blinks owlishly at him. Her eyes are large and dark; a strand of dark brown hair falls across her face. He brushes it back.

They lie face to face, watching each other, neither speaking.

Finally Teresa says, "You've been melancholy lately."

"A little bit," he confesses. He reaches out and strokes her shoulder. The need to touch her has become a compulsion, every bit as strong as every other addiction he battled with over the years. Gambling. Lying. Finding Red John.

She looks sad. "You want… more, don't you?"

He sighs. "I didn't realize how much family meant to me. Not just Angela and Charlotte, but family in general."

"I saw you put their picture up," she whispers.

"Is that okay?"

"Of course." Her fingers find his and entwine with them. "They'll always be part of your life, Patrick."

"I am happy with you, Reese," he says. "I'm happier than I've been in a very long time. Even if it's just this, just us being together, I'd be happy."

"But you want more," she says again.

"I won't lie about that. I want to marry you, Teresa, to make this official." He grins cheekily. "I guess I'm a traditionalist."

She pokes him in the ribs with their joined hand. "That's just code for old."

"Hey!" He feigns offense.

She is quiet for a minute, considering. "I saw tonight that you were disappointed when I told you I had my period."

"I was being ridiculous," he says quietly, his voice full of half chastisement. "It was a momentary thing, Reese. I'd hoped… I'm not sure."

"You'd be a great dad again, Patrick," she says.

He swallows thickly. "And if I let my child down again? If I let you down again?"

She moves in closer, so that his chin rests on her forehead. She wraps him in her arms, keeps him close. "You won't," she says. "We've face a lot together and come out on top. You won't let me down."

Later, after he's doused the light, and they're lying together sleepily she says, "What if I stopped taking the pill?"

The hand that was stroking her back goes still. "You don't have to do that for me, Reese."

"I'm not really a saint, Jane," she says dryly. "I wouldn't have a baby just to make you happy. Besides, there's no guarantee I'd get pregnant. I'm forty years old."

For a moment he is breathless, terrified, joyful, full of love.

"Let's see what happens," she says.

"Let's see what happens," he agrees.


	37. Chapter 37

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now.

XXXVII.

Jane is sitting on the couch, watching the nightly news wrap up while Teresa gets ready for bed. He's been a night owl most of his life, but living with her has meant adjusting to an earlier schedule. He supposes he could stay up, but then he'd miss her falling asleep in his arms, and that's something he's not willing to sacrifice.

She comes downstairs, brushing her teeth and wearing a pair of pink cotton shorts and tee-shirt. Her hair is pulled back. He thinks she's most beautiful when she's like this.

She takes the toothbrush out of her mouth. "I have a question to ask you."

He uncrosses his legs. "Okay." He finds it interesting that she's decided right now, in the middle of cleaning her teeth, is the time to ask. Clearly she's been mulling over whatever it is and has just worked up the courage to ask.

"I want you to come home with me for Christmas," she says, the blue toothbrush wavering in the air slightly. "I want to introduce you to the rest of my family."

He feels a little kick in his chest. "As?"

She arches her eyebrows. "Well I'm not going to call you my lover in front of my brothers, if that's what you're asking, but I think they can read between the lines."

He knows what the means to her, to bring him home to meet the family. From what he knows of her, Greg was the last man to be introduced to the Lisbon clan. She is still protective of her brothers and holds family sacred; she doesn't take anyone home unless she means it. He remembers her hesitancy at Thanksgiving, and the grin she wore after Annie tried to set them up.

This means something to her, he realizes. This relationship, it has transcended beyond the walls of her apartment to something more. Secretly he had been afraid things would fall apart once they got back to work after the holidays. Once out in the real world again, would they find themselves unable to cope with the baggage each one carried?

She wants this, he thinks. She wants this to be real.

"I'd love to meet your brothers," he says quietly, sincerely.

She smirks. "And their ten children."

"_What_?" How was it she managed to keep that little detail to herself all these years? He knew she had nieces and nephews but…

"James has seven, Peter has three," she says, then sticks the toothbrush into her mouth.

"Has anyone explained to your brothers how children are made?" he asks dryly.

She rolls her eyes and marches upstairs. "It's going to be rowdy, and you can't back out now!"

He grins. He wouldn't dream of it.

He follows her upstairs and strips. He's quit bothering with pajamas. He never wore them before and she doesn't seem to mind. Teresa shuts off the lights on her way to bed, and slides in beside him. They assume their usual position, on their sides, his arm curled around her. Her feet tangle in his.

He slips his hand beneath her shirt to touch the bare skin of her stomach. He can't stop thinking about the fact that once her period is done, they will start trying for a child. Well, not trying really, 'seeing what happens.'

He can accept it if nothing does, but he will grateful if she does conceive. He hopes she knows that he'll want a marriage before the baby is born, though. Quite frankly, given her Catholic upbringing, he's surprised she's putting the horse before the cart.

Of course she's seen enough bad marriages that perhaps the idea is more unnatural to her than that of being a mother. She raised her brothers and she's one of the most maternal people he's met.

He knows her mother held their family together, that her father wasn't much of a parent or a husband. He supposes she deserves to be conflicted about marriage.

After all, he thinks bitterly, she's living with a man who was responsible for the death of his first wife and his child. The guilt rises in this throat like bile. He swallows it down, and prays that he can deserve a second chance.

XXX

"It's retail-pocolypse in here," Jane complains.

She ignores his good natured griping and grabs a cart from the corral. "What did you think a toy store would be like before Christmas?" she asks.

"Don't these people know about the internet?" he mutters.

He follows her down an aisle festooned in pink—the dreaded Barbie aisle. He snags a box from the shelf and studies it. "I don't remember them looking quite as much like prostitutes," he observes.

"Times change," she replies dryly. "I get each of my nieces and nephews one toy every year, That's seven girls, three boys."

"Only three boys?" Jane asks.

She takes the Barbie from him and looks at it. The doll does look like a hooker she busted once. She puts it back and selects the one where Barbie is ostensibly a veterinarian—she has a pink stethoscope, how appropriate.

"James has six girls and one boy, Alexander," she explains. "Peter has two boys, one girl."

"Poor Alexander," says Jane seriously.

"He's a trooper," she confirms. She rattles off the names and ages of her nieces and nephews, and watches him commit them to memory instantly. Sometimes she finds his abilities a little irritating—mostly out of jealously.

She loses Jane in the store for a bit, then he saunters back carrying a hundred dollar Lego set.

"What's that?" she asks.

"For Alexander," he explains. "From Uncle Jane. Anyone who lives with six Lisbon girls deserves an excellent Christmas gift."

She punches him in the arm, but falls in love with him just a little bit more.

As they round the aisle they see a familiar man stretching up to grab a box of stacking blocks from a selection of pre-school aged toys.

"Rigsby!" Jane calls.

Rigsby turns and breaks into a grin. In that moment Teresa realizes how much she's missed her team. Jane claps him on the back; she gives her junior agent a hug, her head barely hitting the middle of his chest.

"Christmas shopping for Ben," he says, holding up the blocks.

"My nieces and nephews," she explains.

"All ten of them," Jane says. "The Lisbon clan are breeders."

She rolls her eyes at him.

"How's the arm?" Rigsby asks. "We miss you at the office. Cho's fine as a stand in, but I don't want this supervisor thing to go to his head."

She smiles. "It's better. I'll be back after the holidays."

"And you?" Rigsby asks, looking at Jane. "We're all kind of wondering if you're coming back at all…now that Red John is dead, I mean."

At the mention of the killer's name, Jane feels a twinge of ghost-pain along the scar on his arm. "I'll be back when Teresa is," he confirms. He puts his hand on the small of her back.

The question hangs there in the air between them.

"We're, um…" she struggles for words.

"We're living together," Jane explains.

"Sure," Rigsby said. He more or less already knew that, but clearly he's unsure of the context.

"I blackmailed Bertram so that we can conduct a non-professional relationship and still stay on the same team," Jane adds, throwing all the cards on the table.

Rigsby frowns, sighs.

Teresa feels her stomach clench painfully.

"I owe Cho another twenty bucks," he admits. "Can you guys at least tell me about the wedding first so I can be the one to win a bet?"

"Sure," says Jane.

"Wedding?" she asks.

Rigsby looks at Jane like the two of them know a secret, then breaks into a smile. "See you after the holidays, Boss," he says cheerfully. He nods his head. "Jane."

"Tell the couch I miss it!" Jane calls after him.

He pats her shoulder reassuringly. "So what does Agent Lisbon want for Christmas," he asks, lightening the mood. "A diamond studded holster perhaps?"

**A/N: Initially I didn't plan on adding a Christmas scene, but then the thought of a holiday with the Lisbons proved too tempting. I'm out of town starting tomorrow—I might be able to sneak another chapter in before that. See you in a week!**


	38. Chapter 38

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

XXXVIII.

Jane stands with his face to the sky and lets the snowflakes hit his skin. He smiles like a giddy child, and Teresa feels her heart melt. She hasn't seen snow in a while, certainly not a good Midwestern snow, but she'd never think to take the moment to savor it. Jane reminds her to enjoy the little things in life.

He sighs, then pops open the trunk of their rental car to load up the suitcases. They have one for clothes and one just for gifts, plus her small travel bag for toiletries. She was amazed at how well they travel together; packing was done without any stress, and Jane's humor kept her spirits light while navigating the lines at the airport. He even charmed the flight attendant into a couple of free drinks for them.

She actually enjoyed the flight, despite the cramped quarters, because she got to sit pressed close to him, his hand resting affectionately on her knee.

Jane catches her looking at him.

"What are you thinking so hard about, Reese?" he asks, bending to kiss her. His lips are chilly.

"Nothing," she says wistfully.

She drives them to Northbrook, the suburb where James and his family live. Peter still lives in the city, but James' house is larger and so the Lisbon family plans to congregate there.

"We'll meet Peter and his family for dinner tonight," she explains. "Then tomorrow we'll have Christmas Eve dinner at James' place. My family always opens gifts Christmas Eve, then we have a big breakfast Christmas Day and the kids' open their gifts from Santa."

"Did you warn them I was coming?" Jane asks watching the skyline through the window.

"Of course," she brushes a strand of hair out of her face. "I wouldn't spring you on anyone unawares, Patrick. They're looking forward to meeting you."

He grins cheekily. "Been a long time since Teresa brought a man home?" he asks.

"Oh hush, you," she scolds. "I want you to like them, Patrick."

He reaches over and takes her hand, squeezes it. "I will, Reese."

They check into their hotel, unpack, and change for dinner. She wears jeans and a causal sweater while Jane wears one of his ubiquitous suits. Before she thought he wore them because he didn't care what he looked like, and they were just convenient. He'd still had the suits from his psychic days and so that's what he wore.

Now she's beginning to realize that Jane is just a little eccentric. He finds things he likes and stays within his comfort zone—the suits, the blue teacup, his scrambled eggs. He is a man who is set in his ways.

Sometimes she wonders if he loves her because he's used to her as well. Then he looks at her like she's the only other person in the world, and she realizes how silly she's being. Jane is a man of discerning tastes, and if he picks her, well, who is she to second guess him?

They meet Peter and his wife, Lisa, at a Lou Malnati's pizza. The minute she opens the door she is assaulted by the delicious smells of deep dish pizza: garlic, tomato paste, and yeasty dough. Her mouth starts to water.

Peter's family is already there, his two older kids coloring in coloring books, the baby in a high chair. Her brother rushes to meet her and encloses her in a bear hug. Once he lets her go, she realizes all eyes are on Jane.

Of all her brothers, Peter resembles her the most. He has dark hair and green eyes, his build naturally slim like her own although he has the rangy muscle of a runner. He's a firefighter, like their father was, and he seems to permanently smell of diesel and smoke.

He eyes Jane for a moment before extending his hand. Jane shakes it.

"So you're the man who's good enough for our little Teresa," he says with genuine humor.

"Knock it off, Pete," Lisa scolds. "You're embarrassing your sister."

She stands up and embraces first Teresa, then Jane. Jane looks momentarily uncomfortable as the other woman practically swallows him in a hug. Teresa grins. Lisa has always been loud, gregarious, and lovable. The minute her brother brought her home, everyone in the family loved her dearly.

"Well, aren't you a handsome one," Lisa says, then for good measure, pats Jane on the butt. "Sit down and have something to eat. They don't feed you on those planes anymore."

Teresa hugs her niece and nephew, and kisses baby Matthew on the forehead.

Jane sits beside her and says, "I don't suppose they have tea here?"

"Tea with pizza?" Peter asks as if he's just blasphemed.

"Hmm, a Coke then," he decides.

A waitress comes by and takes their orders, smiling a little too sweetly at Jane. Both Lisa and Teresa give her the eye.

"I've heard a lot about you from Reese," Peter says. "She says you're some kind of genius when it comes to solving crimes."

"Genius?" Jane asks and grins at her.

"You had to tell him that?" Teresa asks her brother dryly.

"I like to think I've been able to help," Jane replies a little more humbly. "So just how long has Teresa been talking about me?"

"Oh, like eight years," Lisa replies brightly, handing Matthew a set of plastic toy keys to play with. "We were wondering how long it was going to take for her to work up the nerve to ask you out."

"Oh my God," Teresa moans.

"Did she tell you I was handsome as well as charming?" Jane asks sunnily.

She is saved by the waitress delivering their drinks.

"Are you married to Aunt Reese?" Peter's daughter, Becca, asks suddenly. She looks up at them from her coloring book, her expression studious.

At seven years old, Becca has the demeanor of an adult, her glasses pushed down her nose, her expression absolutely serious.

"No, we're not married, honey," Teresa says.

"Do you live with her?" Becca asks Jane, completely ignoring her aunt.

"Well," he says with equal sobriety, "we recently began co-habitating."

Lisa hides her grin as she sips her Coke. Peter looks mildly uncomfortable.

"I know what that word means," Becca says. She pushes her glasses up her nose. "An' you can't live together if you're not married because that's breaking the law, I think."

"Oh my," says Teresa.

The adults break into laughter, Jane included.

"I'm not being funny!" Becca protests indignantly.

Her brother takes the opportunity to say, "Mommy I got to pee!"

Lisa rolls her eyes. "I'm in the bathroom with one them every five minutes. C'mon Josh." She helps him out of his seat.

Jane leans over and whispers, "And you were worried they wouldn't like me. The little one is suspicious," he nods toward Becca, "but your sister-in-law touched my ass."

She rolls her eyes, but grins. "You still have to meet James. He's a little stuffier."

Jane shrugs. "Meh." He doubts very much that there is a Lisbon he wouldn't like.

They eat their pizza—which Jane has to admit is excellent. Conversation drifts toward comfortable topics: work, the kids, embarrassing stories of Teresa as a child. Jane is remains mostly quiet, content to listen.

Becca periodically peppers him with questions.

"Why is your hair curly?" she asks.

"It just is," he replies easily.

"Do you have a gun like Aunt Reese?"

"Uh, no, I usually run away from guns. They're very bad."

"Do you have any pets? I have a cat named Terrance."

"No, but I had an elephant once," he says, then proceeds to tell them stories about the menagerie that traveled with the fair.

Becca is suitably impressed. "Did you ever Read Doctor Doolittle, cuz that's a pretty good book. I read at a fourth grade level."

"I have not," Jane confesses. "But I'll keep that in mind."

"Becca, leave him alone," Peter chides, wiping tomato sauce off Josh's chin.

Becca ignores her father and looks at her aunt. "He's okay, Aunt Reese. You can keep him."

The table erupts in laughter again.

XXX

Later Jane sits cross legged on their hotel bed, gratefully sipping a cup of tea and watching the news on WGN. He's still on California time, and it feels much too early to him.

Teresa is fiddling with the thermostat. "I hate hotel rooms. It's always too cold or too hot."

He lifts up the covers. "Climb under, I'll rub your feet to warm them up."

He sets his mug on the bedside table and gets into bed with her, both of them still clothed. He finds her feet under the sheets and rubs her toes through her socks.

"If you tickle me, I'll kill you," she warns, but she's smiling.

He runs his fingers along the arch of her foot. "Like this?"

"Jane!"

He tickles her harder.

"Patrick," she laughs. He stops.

"My family liked you," she tells him. "I'm not sure why."

"I will tickle you again, woman," he warns.

"Patrick," she says. "I'm not cold anymore."

He puts her foot down, and watches while she grins at him slyly and starts shimmying out her clothes.

"Teresa Lisbon," he chides, "Are you trying to start something."

She unclips her bra, bats her eyelashes. "I wouldn't dream of it," she says innocently.

He grins and pulls her into his arms, kisses her.

Outside it snows.

A/N: I think this is my favorite chapter so far, maybe because I love Chicago so much. Keep reviewing. You guys are the best!


	39. Chapter 39

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

**A/N: So after a long absence I'm back. A lot going on in my world—illness, surgery, the holidays, work, work, work… I'll try to be better about posting. I feel a bit out of practice here, and I suspect this chapter is sh*t, but bear with me guys…**

XXXIX.

The following day Jane follows Teresa into her brother James' house, his arms full of packages. James is a lawyer, his family living in a large house in the suburbs. His home smells of lemon-scented wood polish and baking ham.

In his conman days, Jane would have seen all of this affluence as an easy mark for a con, now he just a family coming together to celebrate the holidays.

James' children, six girls, one boy, come tumbling down the stairs like a mass of squirming puppies to hug their aunt and eye the presents Jane is Sherpa-ing in from the car.

"Girls! Girls!" James scolds.

Alexander, the only little boy, stands back from the mad group of girls, waiting his turn. Jane winks at him and the child grins shyly.

"Reese," James says warmly, hugging his sister for a long moment.

When they pull back he turns to Jane and shakes his hand. "You must be Patrick. Peter called last night to tell us all about you."

Teresa rolls her eyes. "Good Lord."

James grins. "Anna is in the kitchen finishing up dinner. Can I get you anything to drink? I recommend something with liquor in it to survive the Lisbon family Christmas."

"Tea if you have it," Jane says pleasantly.

Alex is watching him intently. As they make their way to living room, complete with enormous Christmas tree and roaring fire, Jane leans over and pulls a golden dollar from the boy's ear. Alex's eyes widen as he takes the coin.

"How did that get in there?" Jane asks, feigning shock.

"My Grandpa Meyer can do that too," Alex whispers, shy yet critical.

"Hmm," Jane muses. "A true Lisbon. Not easily impressed." He rocks back on his heels and studies the boy. "Check your pocket."

Alex looks confused but reaches into the pocket of his corduroys. He pulls out another gold coin—this one foil wrapped chocolate.

"No way," he says.

Jane just shrugs innocently.

Two of the girls are squabbling in the hallway. They are the oldest two, in their early teens. One is holding a cell phone while the other tries to snatch it back from her.

"Girls!" James shouts again. He looks exasperated.

The doorbell rings.

From the kitchen, a woman, presumably Anna, yells, "Jimmy! Get that!"

The smoke alarm down the hall goes off. The same woman starts swearing vigorously.

Jane can feel a headache building in his neck. He grins. He loves it.

XXX

Dinner is ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, and assortment of sides. Anna is not the suburban housewife Jane has imagined. She is blonde with a streak of pink running through her hair. She wears a shirt that says "This Is What a Feminist Looks Like" under an over-sized cardigan.

She swears like a sailor when the kids aren't around.

Peter and Lisa's brood, even skeptical Becca, seem subdued compared to Anna and James' family. Jane hardly gets a word in edgewise during the meal, which is fine with him. It allows him to watch the others.

There are no real secrets to be uncovered here, at least nothing scandalous. James doesn't drink. Jane guesses that it's either because of his father's alcoholism or because he is a recovering alcoholic himself. It's clear that Lisa and Anna don't totally get along; although they are polite, they are cool to each other.

Both Peter and James seem to be scrutinizing him. He can sense that they welcome him, but don't trust him. He suspects an engagement ring will go a long way to easing their discomfort.

He glances at Teresa's bare finger and wishes she felt the same way her brothers do.

Alex sits next to him during the meal, whispering to him when he wants more ham, the butter or another roll. Jane makes his fork disappear occasionally and steals some of his potatoes.

Once the food is put away they let the kids open their presents. It's an orgy of paper-shredding and excited squeals. Alex's eyes light up at the Legos, and Jane remembers Charlotte opening her gifts with painful clarity. As if she senses it, Teresa leans against him and squeezes his hand.

Later the adults exchange small gifts, and he can tell Teresa's family is wondering if he'll propose. When he doesn't there is an air of disappointment in the room. Teresa feels it too. She seems uncomfortable.

They go outside for air.

"They just want you to be taken care of Reese," he says gently. His breath steams in the cold air.

"I can take care of myself," she insists. "Anna gets it, but the others…"

"Family means something to them," he replies. "Look at this brood. They don't understand you not wanting the same things they do."

She squeezes her eyes closed. "I do want them. Just not…I'm not ready."

He leans against the railing of the deck, brushing the snow away. He lets her think.

"When I close my eyes at night I see you and Red John. I see him slashing you with that knife," she says quietly. "Sometimes when I wake up and you're there, I think, 'this can't be real. It can't be this good.' I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

He sighs. The ambient light from the city makes it hard to see the stars. "So we're in a holding pattern until something awful happens?"

"Well, it sounds crazy when you say it like that," she mutters. Her nose is red. He wraps him arm around her, drawing her into the heat of his body.

"If something bad is going to happen it will whether we're married or not," he whispers. "Losing Charlotte and Angela taught me that you can't control tragedy. You just have to enjoy your blessings while you have them."

She squeezes her eyes closed and tucks her cheek against his chest. "I've never loved someone so much that it hurt before. I don't know how you survived losing them, Patrick."

He is quiet for a moment, then he says, "A year ago I'd probably make some glib remark about how people don't die from grief, but the truth is, Reese, I found you. You saved me when you took me in."

She is silent. After several chilly moments she says, "I feel like this is leading up to an ultimatum."

He shakes his head. "I'd wait for you forever, but I'd feel like this was complete if we were married."

"I'm scared," she says.

He squeezes her. "That's the point," he says. "When you're together you don't have to be scared alone."


	40. Chapter 40

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: Just a short chapter today, but I'm wrapping up this story. Hopefully the last few chapters will get written this weekend.

XL.

Teresa's alarm goes off, jarring her from the comforting dark of sleep. For a moment she lies in her bed, breathing in the chilly morning air and listening to Jane stir beside her. The sun is just starting to peek through her blinds.

Their hazy daydream had to end eventually, but Teresa still feels disappointed that her leave of absence is over and she has to return to work.

Part of her longs to go back to the job that has meant so much to her, the other part dreads what it might do to her relationship with Jane. She has to transition from being his lover to his boss and back again, no easy feat.

He senses her unease, lingers in bed. He presses loving kisses to the back of her neck, squeezes her hip reassuringly.

Silently they fall back into their routine. She showers as he makes breakfast, then they pass in the hall, Jane's hand reaching out to grasp hers for a second.

She lets him pass and draws in a deep breath. In the kitchen she pours herself a cup of coffee and savors the bitter liquid. They can make this work, she thinks as she listens to the shower run. They have to.

XXX

When she strides into the bullpen and hears the usual chaos of phones ringing and people talking, her heartbeat settles into a normal rhythm. Anxiety aside, she feels like she's coming home, to the place where she belongs. Sad as it is, the CBI office has been more of a home to her in the past years than her own apartment. Only recently has that begun to shift.

Grace beams at her as she walks in, red hair swinging behind her. "Boss! We're so glad you're back!"

"Why, was Cho a horrible boss?" she teases.

"Not at all," Rigsby comments from his desk, "unless you don't like working for Stalin."

Cho, who is already hard at work, remarks, "They were uppity. Had to put the masses back in their place."

She smiles and shakes her head. She notices that a cold case is posted on their murder board.

Cho catches her glance. "Quiet month for murder."

"Well that's good," she replies, relieved that they didn't have to work a major case without her or Jane.

As if on cue the consultant strolls into the bullpen, carrying a paper tray with coffees. They agreed to drive to and from work separately. There's no secret that they're together, but she still doesn't feel it's professional to advertise it.

Jane sets the coffee on his desk. "Tell me how much you missed me," he says, flopping onto his couch. "Don't leave anything out."

"Hardly knew you were gone," Grace says breezily. "Although I think someone did ask where the lump in the corner went to."

"Pssh," Jane mumbles. "You guys were lost without me. Was it my unique crime solving abilities or my roguish good looks that you missed the most?"

Grace rolls her eyes and gives Teresa a look that says, 'good luck with that one.'

Swallowing a grin Teresa retreats to her office, leaving Jane to pretend to doze.

XXX

The first two days pass quietly, aside from Jane irritating the office staff. The team slips back together cohesively and Teresa resists the urge to stay late doing paperwork in favor of dinner with Jane. It feels quiet. Cozy.

Her team seems unconcerned by her relationship with Jane, but she can sense a shift in the weather among some of the other CBI members. Some of them are blatantly looking for a ring on her finger (she isn't sure if that's due to her being a Catholic or Jane's boasting to Bertram that he was going to marry her). Some of them are just using the change in their relationship as a reason to gossip. There's been talk about the two of them for years, all baseless of course, but now the speculation seems rampant.

Teresa is pulling old files when she hears two women outside the door talking.

"They've been sleeping together for years," one says knowingly. "They only admitted to it after Red John was killed. Getting him means neither of them can really be fired now without creating a public outcry." Her tone is laced with disgust.

"I'm sure they went at it right away," the second one agrees. "He's so good looking, how could she resist? Besides, why else would she have put up with his crap for all this time?"

Teresa grits her teeth and slams a filing cabinet drawer shut. Both women are gone when she walks into the hall.

Normally gossip doesn't bother her because it has no foundation, now that she's actually_ with_ Jane, she feels more sensitive about the talk regarding them.

She returns to her desk in a huff. Jane watches curiously from his couch, but wisely doesn't try to follow her into her office.

A few minutes later when there is a knock on her door, she snaps "What?"

"Caught a case," Rigsby says cautiously, poking his head in the office. "A murder at Sonoma Coast Park. Not a lot of information yet."

She tries to look apologetic. "Sure. Get the van, we'll head over."

Rigsby smiles. "Sure boss."

She waits till he's gone to steady herself. She takes a breath. She can do this. She spent years not caring about the judgment of others. Working and living with Jane shouldn't change a thing.

Except it does.


	41. Chapter 41

Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

Author's Note: The end. Finally!

XLI.

Jane stands off to the side at the crime scene, ostensibly taking everything in, watching for clues. Instead he is watching Teresa take in the sight of a body lying sprawled on the ground. He has been quietly studying her for days, taking in her mood.

He can tell that the change in their relationship is troubling to her, which, quite frankly is surprising to him. He had always naively assumed that once he and Teresa were together, happily ever after would follow easily enough. It had with Angela.

Teresa, he is realizing, is a more complicated woman than he realized. All these years she bore as many scars as he did, only somehow she hid them even from him. He had no idea how traumatizing her parents' death or her father's alcoholism had been for her. He'd realized that it kept her from opening up completely to others, but somehow he assumed that the same wouldn't apply to him.

Teresa is content to take care of him; always had taken care of him. Now that he has asked to take care of her—to be with her forever—he can see her hackles raise in fear. She is afraid to trust that completely. She is afraid to be disappointed again.

The smell of death wafts through the park, incongruous amid the bright sunlight and birdsong.

Teresa stands up from where she was crouching over the body and tugs her jacket back in place. She strolls over to him, face impassive.

"Any brilliant ideas?" she asks.

"I wish," he says wistfully.

She looks at him askance. "I was talking about the case."

"Oh. Hm." He glances up at the blue sky and squints into the sun. "Not yet."

"He was a firefighter," Teresa says, surprising him.

He turns to her. "And how did you figure that out?"

She glances back at the nude body. "No hair on his shins. The fronts of my father's legs were missing hair too—from crawling around on hot floors. It gets singed off and eventually doesn't grow back."

"Agent Lisbon, I'm impressed," he says.

A muscle in her jaw ticks. "The last time we investigated the death of a fireman you nearly died on me."

"Well, I won't wander off to be drowned," he assures her.

She stares into the middle distance for a long moment then says, "There's not much more to do here. Let's go."

He follows her to the SUV, his hand gentle on her lower back.

XXX

Jane is folding origami swans when Cho comes into the bullpen, pulling off his jacket. "Case is closed," he announces in the same tone a normal person might use to comment on the weather.

"But I didn't do anything yet," Jane remarks.

"Didn't have to," Cho replies. "It was open and shut. Ballistics matched the bullets used to kill the victim to his ex-wife's gun."

A desk away Rigsby shrugs. "Sometimes it really is the simplest answer."

Jane sets the little swan down. "Well that's boring. Did you tell Lisbon?"

"Called her," Cho said.

Jane glances at her office. The blinds are closed. When they returned she locked herself in there to stew, although she'd never admit it. "She left?"

"Like an hour ago," Cho says.

Rigsby looks uncomfortable.

Interesting.

Now she can sneak away from him too. She was more predictable before they were an item.

He stands up and stretches. "Gentlemen, I'm off for the day."

"See ya," says Rigsby.

Cho just nods.

He needs to make her understand that she is safe with him. That she'll always be safe with him.

He needs to find a really good jeweler.

XXX

Teresa is at their apartment, sitting curled up on the couch eating ice cream and reading a romance novel (a secret indulgence) when he gets home hours later.

She looks up at him guiltily. "Sorry. I just needed some time to myself, to think."

"The attic was open," he jokes lightly. He sits down on the sofa next to her, gently takes her foot in his hand and rubs the arch. "Do you want to talk about it?'

She rubs her forehead. "Seeing the vic lying there naked, knowing he was a fireman… I found my dad, did you know that?"

He had suspected. He just shakes his head.

"Hanging in his bedroom, from the ceiling fan," she continues. "And even though I was a kid still I just thought, how can anyone be so selfish? I was angry at him but…_relieved_ too. Because we were free then." Her hand lightly touches her cross.

She laughs bitterly. "I really hate firemen you know that? After one nearly killed you…"

He squeezes her foot. "I'm still here."

Her eyes are wet. "When you came back, you weren't you. It was like my dad after my mom died…he was there, but he was drunk all the time and not him and…"

He never thought about it that way. Suddenly he feels sick remembering his cavalier attitude during his fugue.

"If taking you back to the house in Malibu didn't bring you back, I was ready to give up on you," she admits. "I couldn't do it again. And when you became that person again, when you were faking it Vegas, I just couldn't…"

"I won't ever do that to you again," he promises. "I couldn't see clearly then, see past my revenge."

"You were selfish too," she says quietly. "You hurt all of us, your family at the CBI, because of your obsession. And I forgave you again. I forgive everyone who hurts me."

He takes a deep breath. "I can't promise I won't hurt you again, but I won't leave you, I promise. I belong to you, Teresa."

He reaches into his pocket and produces a small velvet box. He hands it to her.

She looks at it like it's a bomb, about to explode.

"_I_ belong to _you_, Teresa, not the other way around," he says gently. "It's always been that way."

She swallows thickly, takes the box from him. She opens it and draws in a breath.

Inside the velvet lining is a gold wedding band. His gold wedding band. It's hanging around a delicate gold chain.

His throat feels thick and swollen. "Read it," he says.

She takes the band out carefully and tilts it so she can read the inscription in the light.

On one side of the inside band are the words Angela and Patrick, on the other are the words Lisbon and Jane.

"I wore that band as much as a testament to my faithfulness to Angela as I wore as a symbol of my fidelity to you," he whispers. "I've belonged to you for years, Teresa. I just didn't realize it then."

She holds the chain between her fingers, the ring swinging gently in the lamplight.

He feels an ache in his heart, a fear he hasn't felt in decades. "When I lost Angela, I found you. I never wanted anyone else, I thought it was the grief, but it was because I already loved you. I was taken without knowing it. I've worn that ring as much for you as her, and I think it's appropriate you wear it now."

A tear slips down her cheek. She lifts the chain around her neck and the ring settles down a little lower than the cross at her throat.

"I haven't been perfect, but I'll always be here for you, I'll always save you, Teresa," he promises.

She slips easily into her arms, her head on his chest.

"Besides, I figured you wouldn't wear an engagement ring. It'd just get bloody when you punched criminals," he remarks.

"Engagement?" she asks, tilting her head up to look at him.

"We can get married tomorrow or in a year, in a church or a courthouse, I don't care," he says. "I don't need a piece of paper if you don't want one. I've already given you a token of my love. The one that meant the most."

She looks up at him, green eyes sparkling. "We'll see."

He bends down to kiss her. "We'll make it work, Reese, I promise."

The ring is warm against her skin, a promise and a reminder of their love.


End file.
